White Death (4 page)

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 to 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?

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 10-99
⁴
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.”

D.C. used a three-man plant system, with one officer in a suit behind a “closed” teller position located on the non-entrance side. He wore an ear mike facing away from the door. Outside two guys sat in a private car wearing old clothes, talking, drinking coffee, and looking casual. On the back seat were two twelve-gauge shotguns covered by papers and clothing. They talked to the inside man and dispatch. In place of the regular service revolver, each carried a .45 caliber Colt, model 1911, semiautomatic for extra stopping power.

“Brady, you’re the teller.” Townsen handed Brady a brightly colored necktie to replace the usual, black clip-on tie we normally wore. “Stone and Jansen, pick up a radio and tell me which car you’re using, including plates. All of you have done these plants. Any questions? The bank at Connecticut and Woodley has been hit before. Tellers told management they believe they’re being cased again. Be careful.”

After about three hours of nothing, Brady came on the air with, “I need ones and fives”—meaning armed robbery: two bad guys. Brady got down on the floor with the other tellers on “orders” from the robbers.

Jansen and I looked for a getaway car and didn’t see one: bad news. Maybe it was out of sight with a shooter we couldn’t see. We walked back to front to the side of the door, waiting for information from Brady. Sirens were approaching rapidly.

Gunfire!
Multiple gunshots from inside, two different weapons. Brady was not supposed to identify himself in any way except in self-defense. Two bad guys burst out of the bank’s front
doors, weapons drawn. I swung my shotgun like a baseball bat catching one in the throat. His knees buckled, and he fell backward. Jansen pivoted right and put the twelve-gauge in the other’s stomach with “Surrender or die.” We quickly disarmed the two and cuffed their ankles together, as other units began pulling up.

Brady was not talking as we raced inside to find him and a teller wounded. The teller’s ear was hanging from the side of his face, a penalty for not moving fast enough. Brady opened his side door and exchanged fire with the gunman who shot the teller. Brady took one in the stomach, but the round went through the door first, expending most of its energy. As I ripped open his shirt, I could see the tip of the lead lodged in his abdomen.

“Stay still,” I said. “The paramedics will give you a Band-Aid so you’ll be ready for work tomorrow.” A weak smile rewarded the humor.

Lieutenant Dominik waited outside as the paramedics attended to Brady.

“Nice job, Flyboy, except you may have killed one of them.”

“Say what?”

“According to the doc here, when you swung that barrel it would have been a triple at least. His larynx was crushed so they had to do a tracheotomy to save his sorry ass. Furthermore, he may have been without air for up to four minutes. We may have to deal with a moron defendant. ‘Incapable of understanding the nature of the charges against him or assisting counsel in his defense.’ Remember Criminal Law 101? Now, I gotta do a mountain of paperwork, and the city has to pay to heal this asshole to bring him to trial. By the way, I missed the advanced weapons course where they teach you to use a twelve-gauge like a baseball bat.”

“I improvised.”

“Well, don’t do any more improvisations. You should have shot and killed the bastard. Less paperwork, and less expense for
the city. I want a detailed SF 252 on my desk before you go home. You’re off the next two days, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unwind.”

I planned to unwind, but silently wondered if cocaine was partially responsible for the upsurge in violence this year.

Down Time

Karen had invited Mike and a lady friend over for dinner and drinks. Karen was a beauty with light skin and sandy red hair. The latter item had been the source of recent discussion among us. Her girlfriends said that with her fair skin, she should “go blonde.” My father once gave me some advice about women’s hairstyle and color: “Stay out! First, they won’t pay much attention to you. Second, if they don’t like it later, it’s your fault.”

“Mike, do you think I should color my hair blonde?”

Poor Mike had not even finished one drink. He looked at me, but Karen was sharp, watching both of us. I just stared ahead as if I hadn’t heard the question. Lily, Mike’s friend, came to the rescue.

“Karen, you are so lovely that it would be perfect either way.”

“Lily, you’re such a diplomat, but thank you.”

“Karen, how did you and Jake meet?”

Mike began to analyze the design of his fork, and I looked straight ahead. Karen enjoyed fielding this one.

“Actually,” she began. “I had never seen Jake before, and he chased me out of a U.S. Post Office while proposing to me.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I said lamely.

“No, it’s not,” replied Karen. “Later you confessed if you couldn’t get to me before I got to my car, you were going to jot down the tag number and find out who I was – all illegal for non-law enforcement purposes. Right?”

“Your Honor, I invoke my Fifth Amendment rights in
declining to answer.”

Lily sat with a smirk on her face, but said nothing.

“Now that we’ve had fun skewering me,” I said, “Karen omitted a few things. First, she looked back at me, with interest, twice before leaving.”

“If you were in fear for your life, wouldn’t you want to give the police a good description?”

“After she left, Karen walked with a slow, deliberate pace toward her car, like she wanted to be caught.”

“Excuse me. It was a gravel surface, and I was in high heels. I calculated the fastest possible speed to my car without a substantial risk of falling down.”

“Time!” said Lily. “I’m so glad I asked this question. At whatever speed she was traveling, you obviously caught up with her. Then what?”

“I told her I had never seen such a beautiful woman with such a sexy voice. How can you sound that sexy telling a clerk to send a package?”

“Your turn, Karen.”

“Well, he was handsome in sort of a rugged way, wearing jeans and cowboy boots, which nobody wears around here. He didn’t sound like a serial killer. I told him I’d meet him for lunch in a restaurant with outside seating and lots of taxis nearby. We kept seeing each other and married a year later.”

“Wow!” said Lily. “If there were a contest for unusual romantic encounters, you would win by acclamation.

“And now you do mostly philanthropic work?”

“I’m raising money to rehabilitate inner-city gyms, basketball courts, and other athletic facilities,” replied Karen. “Also, I have agreements from some current and former professional athletes to work with the kids, or at least make occasional appearances at their gyms or events. These athletes are often the only male role models for these children. In addition, I’m working with Social Services to help find and fund alternatives to juvenile detention
for first or non-violent offenders. If you tell a boy often enough that he is bad or delinquent, it becomes his self-image. I am a big believer in labeling theory. They need positive goals and aspirations while they are still malleable, not a label limiting their future to a life of crime. Some can’t be helped. They graduate to become problems for Jake and Mike. If they’re shooting hoops, they’re not shooting drugs. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea,” said Mike. “Too many of these kids come from families with no fathers. The police can’t be male role models for them. The city still looks burned out after the race riots last year, and too many kids are taught that police are their enemies.”

After telling the story of how we met yet another time, with a few more embellishments, the banter was light over drinks and dinner. Both ladies gently admonished Mike and me about our morbid interest in visiting the scores of civil-war battlefields from Gettysburg south into central Virginia.

Karen and Lily drifted toward the kitchen, and we headed into the living room. The picture window was stunning and kept so clean that birds routinely flew into it and broke their necks. The gardener disposed of them quickly to minimize Karen’s knowledge of the problem. Although Karen lived in a world with little pain, she understood life outside the bubble. She had a tough streak alongside her humanity, which helped me stay grounded in a daily routine where the radio ensured we stayed focused on human cruelty.

Washington, D.C., June 1969

Sergeant Townsen put Brinson and me on the power shift from 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m., walking beats three and four. Beat two ends at the Zombies where beat three begins, heading north on Georgia Avenue. We stopped briefly in the Zombies, said a few “hellos,” and headed north. We passed one of the few Chinese restaurants in the area. Cops in uniform who wanted a free meal could enter on the side and be served whatever food they brought out – no menu. Those wanting to choose their meal entered the front door, received a menu, and paid like any other patron.

It seemed unusually quiet. Brinson remarked, “Welfare checks don’t arrive for another few days. So, they’re short on liquor and don’t feel much like fighting yet.” I smiled at his cynical analysis, but there was some truth in it.

We had pulled the top box and turned to walk south when Brinson announced, “I’m bored. This is supposed to be the power shift.”

“Well,” I countered, “it proves we’ve done our job. Stopped crime along our beat.”

Brinson smiled.

“Brinson, did you notice that table of rough-looking guys who were still in the Zombies when we made our social call at the beginning of the shift?”

We exchanged glances.

“Yeah I did. Are we thinking the same thing?”

“Uh huh. Let’s pick up the pace a little to see if they have left quietly. If not, we may need back up.”

We heard raised voices as we walked in the door. The manager, Susan, and Big Carol were in a heated discussion. Susan, a bear dyke with a jagged scar down one cheek and two missing front teeth, chain-smoked and served liquor, always trying to stay out of the bar’s internal politics. She was civil, but brusque with the cops who came in after hours to drink. The argument centered on how to handle the roughnecks, the steel-workers from Pittsburgh. All of the dykes and a few femmes had gathered around the back table to make their views clear. One femme seethed that the, “Motherfucker pulled me into his chair, ripped open my blouse, and fondled my breasts.”

Susan wanted to call the cops. Carol countered that they needed to settle these troubles themselves. “If we call the cops, it sends the message that we depend on them to take care of our problems. We’ve never called the cops for big things, much less to throw out a table of drunken bums.”

Brinson and I stood inside the doorway, unsure about the politics of open intervention. I had a new footman radio and called for backup, but I told the dispatcher to have the cars come
code two
– no lights or sirens.

Tired of the argument, Big Carol abruptly stood up, ordered one of the girls to unplug the jukebox, and walked directly over to the biggest steelworker. The time for diplomacy had ended. When Carol tapped that guy on the shoulder, there wasn’t a sound in the bar.

Carol began, “You listen real careful, motherfucker. If you don’t want your balls on my watch chain, you take your friends and leave –
now.”
He must have had too much whisky, didn’t realize that major muscle was talking. He stood up and took a wild swing with his left hand. Carol stepped right to avoid it and knocked him to the floor with a hook to his temple.

“Oh, shit,” said Brinson, “let’s get into it.” We waded into the fight, which deteriorated quickly into a brawl. The eight steel-workers did not go down easily. I watched one dyke and a steelworker
crash through a plywood partition into the men’s room. Soon water was spewing out of the bathroom as the exposed copper pipes were ripped out of the wall. Water mixed with the blood and beer on the slippery floor. Femmes joined in using chairs as weapons. Both sides were using broken beer bottles, as the fighting grew uglier and bloodier. I pushed the transmit button on the radio and just yelled, “10-33 at Zombies.” Soon cops came pouring in and quickly subdued the remaining steel-workers.

I sat down exhausted on the floor near the bar, with a new uniform slashed by a broken beer bottle. The back of my head bled from a nasty cut.

Brinson looked at me and just said, “Flyboy?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. How about you?”

“I’m okay. I think they put Country into an ambulance. I’m going to call the Washington Hospital Center when we get back to check on him.”

Lieutenant Dominik stood by the door looking at the carnage. “Listen up, everybody,” he bellowed. “Stone and Brinson are going to do the paperwork. Anybody that wants to add important information should meet them at the station.” Pointing at Susan and Carol, Dominik added, “You two are coming with me for statements.”

“I don’t want to,” said Susan sourly.

Dominik thundered back, “I don’t give a shit what you want. You come voluntarily or I’ll arrest you right now as a material witness to multiple felonies.

“Stone, get one of the paramedics to examine your head. If it’s as hard as I think, he can put a bandage on it, and you’ll be fine. Work with Brinson. Not only do we have multiple criminal charges to sort out, I guarantee this melee will result in civil litigation. Be careful with checking and corroborating facts.”

Turning to other officers, he ordered that no ambulance leave without a name, address, and phone of the injured party. Looking
at the pipe still spewing water and the detritus around him, the lieutenant muttered, “What a cluster fuck,” to nobody in particular. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I want the list of injured turned over to Stone and Brinson.” Turning to two officers, he said, “Get the names and addresses of everybody who was in this room when the fighting began. Some have already slipped out. Find out from the girls who they are. Preacher, compile a master list based on those names and give it to Stone or Brinson.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” replied Preacher, clearly mindful of his uncharacteristically foul mood.

After I returned with a bandaged head and two aspirins, Brinson said, “I’m so fucking glad you cleaned up all the crime on this beat.”