White Death (3 page)

“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.”

“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.”

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 in.

“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.