White Death (2 page)

Washington, D.C., May 1969

The next day, Jansen and I took PT’s normal one and two beats. We had barely started strolling when I noticed a familiar-looking figure ambling down the sidewalk.

“Mike, I know that guy with the dark sweater stepping toward us. I arrested him a couple of years ago for selling stolen property out of the trunk of his car. As a second conviction, he pulled a little time.”

“Leroy, you remember me?”

“Yeah.”

“You must have built up your good time to be out so early.”

“Yeah.”

“Seems like you got a good job. Did I see you mowing fields in the park here?”

“Yeah.”

“Pays good?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parole officer happy?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice talking to you, Leroy.”

“Yeah.”

“I can tell he’s a close friend, Jake,” said Mike, laughing.

“Yeah.”

I reminded Mike about the blue call boxes every five or six blocks, with a phone going directly to the station. You pulled a box on the hour or half past it. Because the promised radios for footmen had not yet arrived, any arrests were taken to a box to
call for transport – old-style police work. With a thin shift, we walked many beats alone at night. Citizens sometimes helped out officers with phone calls, but this unseen help gradually disappeared as the beats moved south into all-black neighborhoods. Here, many viewed the police as an unwelcome, even occupying army. One and two beats were on Georgia Avenue, about sixteen blocks in total. Beginning at Missouri Avenue, one and two moved south through a busy commercial corridor of clubs, cleaners, liquor stores, and bars.

Everyone knew one bar near the beginning of the beat: the Zombies. I passed through the rusting iron security bars welded to the back door and into the kitchen with Jansen in tow. Maude, the cook, was a somewhat heavy black woman in her late thirties, with astonishing mammary development. Even when adding a little extra grease to her recipe, she greeted all cops coming through the back with a special treat.

“Jake, honey, your hands look cold.” She put each hand inside her stained blouse and used both hands to rub them in a circular motion around her breasts. Looking at Mike, she said, “I don’t know you, baby, but you got that uniform on, so what’s your name?”

I grinned at Jansen and said, “Close your mouth and use it to answer her.”

“Mike,” he replied weakly. As she was giving Mike “the treatment,” she apologized that her boobs were “not as hot” because of my cold hands.

As we walked into the bar, I leaned over into Jansen’s ear and said, “There are two ironclad rules here: First, don’t eat Maude’s food; and second, look but don’t touch any of the women. We come here after a shift to buy half-price drinks. Every woman in here is a lesbian. It’s a straight bar during the day. You can see that most of the barflies are beginning to leave. At 6:00 p.m., one of the dykes puts a ten-dollar cover charge for men in the window, in case they’re new to town and think they just found
paradise.”

Some had begun to dance, a few were making out in the booths which lined the long wall, and others sat at the bar drinking and chatting. The Zombies was rectangular with a relatively small area facing the sidewalk and entrance, and Maude’s kitchen was out of direct sight in the back. The bar faced out onto a nice wooden dance floor.

A bear dyke with a light brown crew cut walked slowly up to me with a half-smile on her face, her hobnailed boots clicking on the wooden dance floor as she approached. Large dykes, sometimes called “bear dykes,” are lesbians who present themselves in a masculine manner. Big Carol and I had a symbiotic relationship, meaning I accepted her without overt, or even implied, criticism. Of course, I took heat for this from some of the brothers. Because no man had accepted her before, Carol felt “special” toward me. Sometimes, we sat and got drunk together, talking like two men. She would occasionally ask for advice on behalf of one of her “femmes,” who constituted the majority of the bar’s denizens. I, in turn, used Carol’s apparently inexhaustible knowledge of the street scene. It was a delicate dance. I had to be hyper-alert not to push too hard or too often. Her information was almost always more credible than that of my other informants – two hookers and an ex-stickup man on parole looking at five years’ backup time if he tripped up.

At six-foot-four-inches and about two-hundred-twenty pounds, Carol was larger than both of us. She wore motorcycle boots, jeans, a denim top, and a black leather vest with leather dangles.

“How you been, Flyboy? Looks like they gave you a newbie to break in.” Jansen, who appeared recovered from Maude’s treatment, was staring up at the toughest-looking woman he had ever seen. Big Carol continued, “I hope you’ve already told this boy to keep his hands off my girls.”

Looking around distractedly, I replied, “Yeah, we covered the
rules. I don’t see Tina and Nina.”

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 together 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.