White Death

by Philip C. Baridon

  “Jake, you never seemed this smart before.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Well, fuck you, too, and the horse you rode in on.”

  We laughed, and the tension broke. “I think Karen has an extra three or four bedrooms. Neither of us should be driving. Since we’re unemployed for a few days, we can screw off tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  Rain and Snow

  Washington, D.C., May 1969

  Sergeant Townsen put Jansen on one and two beats his first day back, no coincidence. He was partnered with “Crash” Dudley, a big man, about six-foot-three-inches, stocky, never said much. “Crash” was an ex-gravedigger, no social skills, and was such a bad driver that precinct officials always put him on a beat. Jansen would have a long tour, especially since the rain had begun to fall in earnest.

  I drew Brady in 67, an imposing black man with an imposing reputation. Officers who worked with him believed he was the smartest cop in the section, with a nearly photographic recall. He memorized hot sheets before the end of roll call. Brady would usually nail one or two stolen cars a week, more than anyone else in the precinct.

  Brady was senior and wanted to drive the first four hours. Normally, the eight-hour shift is divided, not only for driving, but also for discretionary matters. Some guys like to sit out of sight at light-controlled intersections and hand out “movers.” Others just write enough tickets to keep out of trouble and prefer to keep driving. Do you lock up the drunk who just described your mother’s sexual preferences, or do you let him go? The driver usually makes these low-level policy decisions.

  After notifying Desk Sergeant Allen that the fifty-round box of ammo was missing from the trunk, I climbed into the right seat, stuffed my nightstick between the seat and backrest, and put more accident forms in the box between us. It is a rough-cut wooden box with one coat of gray paint and loaded with forms and flares. Rain means more accidents than usual.

  As the cruiser mingled with the lighter-than-average traffic heading south on Fourteenth Street, Brady shouted, “That motherfucker is driving a stolen car – check it out.”

  “Nice work,” I said with obvious admiration. “I’ll verify it through WALES.1

  “A ’66 Olds, black over cream, DC 384-194 is definitely hot. Brady, look at the driver, he fits the general description of the High’s store robbery yesterday.”

  “Flyboy, I think we got a two-for-one here.”

  Meanwhile, other units began to flank the car moving in parallel on Sixteenth Street and Georgia Avenue. More set up a roadblock about ten blocks south.

  I grabbed the mike, “Scout 67 emergency, we’re made, and the stolen vehicle is running south.”

  “All units in vicinity of Fourteenth and Upshur Street, black over cream Olds DC 384-194 reported running south.”

  I had flipped on the light bar and selected “yelp” as the primary unit. The next car should select “wail,” but the system always failed when all hell broke loose. Riding shotgun, I managed communications. It was going to be a high-speed chase in the rain. Brady drove fast and continually cursed. The moaning sound of the Holly four-barrels cut in and out on the 383 Interceptor package as Brady fought to stay on the edge between maximum speed and controllability.

  “Scout 67, he’s turning right on Spring Road. Now right again on Sixteenth Street.”

  “All responding units, vehicle now fleeing north on Sixteenth Street.”

  “Scout 67. Ask the Park Police to cut off Military Road if that’s his plan.”

  “Scout 67, say present position.”

  “67 just passed Decatur Street.” Sixteenth Street was a straightaway here. Brady was fifty yards behind him doing one-hundred-ten in the rain. My adrenalin was off the scale as the yelp of the siren pounded in my head.

  Both of us had graduated from Pursuit-High Speed Driving School and understood very well that, at this speed and in the rain, the tires had long since left the pavement. Water built up under the tires too quickly for the rain grooves to dissipate. Only tiny corrections to a straight course were possible. I was like a sponge, absorbing the joy of the chase and adrenalin, along with the fear that my life might end in a matter of moments. Most cops confess to each other the love of adrenalin. It’s not socially acceptable, however, for a man who carries a gun for a living to admit it.

  “Scout 67,” barked the dispatcher. “Be advised that Park has set up a roadblock at Beach Drive.”

  “67 copies.”

  I had guessed right, the Olds slowed and turned left onto Military Road, perhaps thinking D.C. had no jurisdiction, or that the Park Police had not been notified.

  “We got him,” Brady said stonily.

  As we approached the roadblock, Brady backed off to a safer distance. The Olds driver saw it too late, locked up his brakes, and began an almost leisurely spin down the road, through the barricade, over the curb and up on a grassy mound. He was lucky. Brady couldn’t wait to cuff him.

  “Let’s go, hot stuff, out of the car, hands on the roof.”

  “Well,” he replied. “I see nothing has changed; the niggers do all the work and your white boy rides along.”

  “Shut up, alley nigger; that’s my partner.”

  While Brady cuffed him, I began to pat down the prisoner. “Get your hands off me, white trash.” I ignored him and continued the search.

  “Well, we have a .25 caliber revolver, and what’s this?” I pulled out three bags of white powder.

  “Brady, I’ve never seen heroin sold like this.” I carefully opened a bag and put some on the tip of my tongue; it was bitter, had little odor, and for a few minutes I lost sensation on my tongue. The powder did not have the characteristic foul smell that comes from adulterants, and most street heroin was averaging less than ten percent pure. It didn’t add up. How did this low life, stick-up man come up with these three bags – probably cocaine?

  “Brady, let’s ask Narcotics to bring their kit to the station.”

  “Good idea. This kid knocked off a High’s store yesterday and he’s carrying this much powder?”

  I began to intone, “You have the right to remain silent…” In a quick movement, the kid stepped back and stomped on the top of my foot. I slammed his head into the car, breaking his nose and causing various cuts.

  “Brady, did you see that? He tripped in the rain and fell on a rock.”

  “I saw the whole thing.”

  “If you want some more accidents, asshole, just keep fucking with me,” I growled. “The accidents are going to get worse, and every cop here will swear to them. Do you understand, asshole? Well?” A bloodstained head nodded up and down slightly.

  Meanwhile, the arriving MPDC officials made nice with the Park Police brass for their cooperation, and Lieutenant Dominik came by to look at the powder. He told me that another officer had found more in a sandwich bag under the seat. We put the prisoner in a cage car,2 and a procession of police vehicles returned to the station in the pouring rain.

  At the precinct, Brady cuffed the prisoner to the rusted pipe. We greeted the team from Narcotics.

  “So, you found something interesting,” said Detective Lieutenant John Roberts. “Let’s have a look.” Roberts was an intense fellow, barely meeting the five-foot-eight-inch height requirement, had a receding hairline, looked to be in his thirties, and was wearing the cheap, standard-issue polyester brown suit. Brady and I exchanged looks as to why the captain of Narcotics sent his second-in-command out to a precinct drug-bust.

  Roberts poured some of the powder onto a clean sheet of paper and appeared to toy with it using a wooden coffee stirrer. To nobody in particular he said, “Cocaine is very hygroscopic—it absorbs moisture easily from any source, including the air. See how it looks and feels a little pasty. Let’s see how pure it is.”

  Out of his bag came a device with a heating coil around the bottom of a Pyrex tube with a thermometer affixed to it. With a tiny spoon, he put in a couple of grams, mixed in a few drops of water, and plugged it i
n.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked the prisoner.

  “Slim.”

  “Do you know what you have here, Slim?”

  “I don’t even know how it got there. Somebody musta put it in my pants while I was sleeping.”

  Roberts silently eyed the rising temperature and the white paste, which began to melt at one-hundred-sixty degrees. Roberts made some notes and pulled the plug at one-hundred-seventy.

  “Pure cocaine melts at one-hundred-ninety-five degrees. However, there is no such thing as imported ‘pure.’ Personally, this is as high as I have ever seen. I need to discuss these results with the higher-ups in the chain of command. Would you ask your lieutenant, the one at the crash site, if I could have a word with him?”

  I went upstairs to find Dominik; he was busy, and asked what Roberts wanted.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “He said he wants a word with you.”

  Roberts walked over to the stairs and motioned for Dominik to join him near a largely abandoned indoor shooting range. Brady, “Slim,” and I watched the sometimes-animated conversation. After a few minutes, the two men shook hands; Dominik left, and Roberts came back for his tester and bag.

  “This is a standard chain-of-custody transfer log,” began Roberts. “I’m going to take the cocaine with me to headquarters. If you gentlemen will each sign here with me, I’ll be on my way. For now, you have Slim on assorted felony charges including the High’s store robbery, auto theft, and traffic charges. When you fill out the SF 252, put ‘an unknown white powder’ was taken from the subject and turned over to Narcotics for further processing.”

  “Why can’t we have the coke bust,” complained Brady.

  “Oh, it won’t disappear. But, I really must get back now. Please talk to your lieutenant, and thanks for the good work.”

  “I need my nose fixed,” whined Slim.

  “Shut up,” I said. “First, you’re going to answer some questions so we can do all this paperwork, then you’re going to get printed upstairs, then you’re going to central cell block, then maybe somebody will take you to D.C. General Hospital.”

  “Stone, let’s walk over to the range and talk for a minute,” said Brady.

  “Sure. My goddam foot still hurts like hell.”

  The old range had five firing points, probably put in when they converted the building. No ventilation system existed to suck the toxic lead out of the air. Occasionally, one or two of the brothers would use it until the air in the range got too bad, which was for maybe a half hour.

  “I’ve been here five years and you more than three,” began Brady. “That’s eight years of police experience without ever seeing cocaine. Now, they send a detective lieutenant here with his toy bag. You know something I don’t?”

  “Big Carol told me that Tina and Nina recently got pinched for possession. And coke was beginning to make the scene.”

  “She say anything else?”

  “No, and her body language said the topic was closed.”

  “Well,” said Brady. “I guess the big shots can sort it out. We fight crime; they make policy.”

  I smiled at the sarcasm. “Let’s get Slim Jim upstairs for prints and hope that Sergeant Allen doesn’t break all his fingers ‘just to make printing easier.’” This was one of Allen’s standard threats to any uncooperative prisoner. Allen had a dark side. In fact, many desk sergeants do. They could not make it on the street, so they manage paper and supplies, which mostly keeps them away from the public.

  As we began to climb the stairs with Slim Jim, the Wagon crew with O’Day and Grab had arrived ahead of us with a prisoner. O’Day, it seems, had been tasting a little Jim Beam and seemed to be in rare form that night. Jansen and Crash had returned from their beat and were preparing to check off.

  “Jansen,” bellowed O’Day. “Do you know how to spot a holdup man?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re gonna learn.” Allen stood behind the huge book that records all arrests with a smirk on his face.

  “What’s your name, asshole?” said O’Day.

  “Reggie Jones.”

  “Are you married, single, widowed, or divorced?”

  “Divorced, I guess. We don’t have no official paper.”

  “What’s your address?”

  “I move a little from place to place.”

  “So, no fixed address.”

  Talking to himself, O’Day said, “Armed Robbery – gun,” and continued writing on the Arrest Book.

  “Jansen! Back to the cell block,” bellowed O’Day again. Anticipation grew as Allen, a card-carrying redneck, had now joined the odd procession.

  “I don’t want to see this,” said Brady. “You make certain your rookie friend understands these assholes are the exceptions and make our work with the public harder.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I replied.

  “OK, drop ‘em!” screamed O’ Day as he slammed the holdup man against the cellblock wall. The two old timers smirked as he screamed the order again; his face flushed, working himself into a cold rage. Allen had taken out his blackjack and was knocking paint chips off the wall, closer and closer to the lock-up’s face.

  In a single movement, O’ Day ripped off the snap and tore the zipper as the pants dropped to the dirty floor.

  “I told you so!” roared O’ Day. “You show me a motherfucker with red silk shorts, and I’ll show you a goddam holdup man. Jansen, you see that! Justice is putting holdup men in jail; you got the right man if he’s sporting silk shorts.”

  Jansen remained stoic but appalled as he absorbed this lesson on the rules of evidence. O’ Day and Allen giggled and walked away.

  Chapter 5

  Bail

  Washington, D.C., May 1969

  The next day Mike and I arrived early at court for the initial appearance and bail setting for “Slim Jim.” Normally, this hearing was quite predictable. The Assistant U.S. Attorney pressed charges on the High’s store robbery, the stolen car, and the other felonies – except the cocaine. She argued in court that he was a flight risk, had no fixed address, a long record, and required a high bond. The judge concurred, and set it at seventy-five thousand dollars. We smiled at ourselves for putting one more bum in jail until trial. He couldn’t possibly post that much money. Having no other business, we walked outside in time to see Slim Jim talk to the driver of a blacked-out Lincoln, and get into the rear seat. We stared.

  The rear window cracked a little. It was Slim Jim’s voice.

  “Yo! White cops. You can never win. We gonna out-slick you at every turn. Bye, assholes.”

  “Mike, I’ve never seen a big-shot criminal post bond for minor charges, and have a new limo waiting in front of the court. This is about the cocaine. Spot me a dime for a call to Detective Roberts.”

  We walked over to a phone booth, and I called the main number at headquarters. I had left his card in my bag and had to find him the hard way; every secretary is trained as a guard dog for the senior staff.

  Finally, “Good morning, Lieutenant, it’s Jake Stone.”

  “Good morning, Jake, what’s up?”

  I explained what had happened and gave him the tag number of the limo, which began with an “R” for rented. He said that he would send someone to the rental agency, but the owners always have faulty memories. They know most of their clients are not wealthy executives.

  “Jake, how does it feel to have met your enemy.”

  “My enemy?”

  “In addition to heroin, we now have cocaine on the streets. Both are white death. It was bad enough just dealing with heroin. Whoever rented that Lincoln is a vendor of death. You don’t invent a well-oiled distribution system, better to use one that’s in place. We know that, but so far, we don’t know much else. I thought you might want to know that hospitals are reporting more overdoses, especially from speedballing.3 This is a new problem, and the Baltimore and Richmond police are beginning to report it. We’re starting a log of these reports t
o look for patterns.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t feel bad. Most people don’t, and it’s not in the papers.”

  We exchanged a few pleasantries and hung up. His reference to “my enemy” still bothered me. What was he thinking?

  Chapter 6

  Return of the Titles

  Washington, D.C., June 1969

  Unfortunately for Washington D.C, it had wrested the per capita homicide title from Detroit and the bank robbery title from Los Angeles in 1969. Both the FBI and D.C. Police had established task forces to handle the enormous rash of bank jobs. With J. Edgar Hoover still at the helm of the FBI, there was little or no coordination between their efforts and ours.

  About a week before, a deadly incident almost occurred in a Georgia Avenue Bank. The FBI had planted one agent inside as a customer doing paperwork at a table. Someone pushed the alarm by mistake, which went to the communication centers of both the FBI and MPDC. Sergeant Townsen was driving by the bank when the radio call went out for a robbery in progress. Townsen stopped his cruiser, grabbed the 12-gauge shotgun off its rack, and hit the front door running. Inside, the agent saw nothing amiss, but had pulled out his service weapon when Townsen burst into the lobby. Townsen fired a rifled slug into the ceiling over the agent’s head and yelled, “Drop it or I’ll cut you in half with the next one.” The agent dropped his weapon and repeatedly screamed, “FBI, FBI, FBI…” Townsen decided he looked like a fed and told him to reach slowly into his pocket and show his “creds” (credentials). Although a tragedy was avoided, the agent needed to take his pants to the cleaners.

  It was the end of day work, and Sergeant Townsen was about to start reading out the assignments.

  “Hey, Sarge,” shouted a voice from the back. “Can I get four hours of leave midway through the shift?”

  “No fucking way. I’m shorthanded today, and I need every swinging dick out on the street. We’re doing bank plants again.”

  “Brinson, you’re 10-994 in 63; Preacher is 10-99 in 64; 65 is out for maintenance; Rip, you’re in 66; Wilson you’re in 67; PT take 1 and 2 beats on the hour; Crash, you take 3 and 4 on the half; O’ Day and Grab are in the Wagon; Flyboy, Jansen, and Brady, see me for details on a plant.”