White Death (8 page)

“You did a good job, Jake. Townsen is old school. Do the paperwork and go home.”

Barranquilla, Colombia, July 1969

With production at near maximum, Alvaro was in one of his rare good moods. All three Comanches, which were about two and one-half with downtime for maintenance, continued to bring cocaine to the waiting trucks in Florida. High-performance planes were maintenance hogs. Not that Alvaro worried about his Airframe and Propeller logs being inspected; he didn’t want to lose a load over the ocean because of mechanical problems. Pilots could be replaced. His new Maserati had arrived in Cartagena. In a couple of days, he would hit the straightaway on the
autopista
going west toward Ensenada, followed by the curves as it hugged the coast.

The flights had not encountered any problems. He and Marcus were a little concerned about the arrangement Ortiz had made with the two line boys in Matthew Town. While the solution was creative and plausible, and while the boys had sworn an oath of secrecy, Alvaro and Marcus understood the boys would eventually tell everybody. The extra money, a hundred dollars, seemed to strike a balance between flashy and motivational, ensuring fuel service to his planes at all hours.

The
gringo’s
demand for cocaine seemed insatiable. Tyrone sold from Richmond to Philadelphia as fast as they could deliver it. The Professor sold no product in Miami and was adamant about two things: (1) keeping the lowest possible profile; and (2) avoiding conflict with potential rivals. For example, they used a small airfield south of the
autopista
. A marijuana dealer, who plied his product to tourists in the Lesser Antilles, owned it. Alvaro and Marcus had met him to discuss joint use of his
private airstrip. He seemed pleased to be contacted first and asked to work out a business arrangement, especially since cooperation was somewhat unusual among drug dealers. The airstrip already existed; additional money for three extra planes was gravy. An agreement came easily.

Yes, life was good.

Washington, D.C., July 1969

“Detective Lieutenant John Roberts, please. This is Officer Jake Stone calling…Yes, he knows me…No, and I don’t want to speak to the sergeant. It’s a sensitive matter we have discussed before…Thank you.” Finally, the secretary dialed his line.

“Hello, Jake. Why are you calling the powder people?”

“I’d like to give you a bag of something, if you’re interested.”

“Quite interested. Do you have enough time left on your shift to go out of service and come to headquarters?”

“Yes. I’ll make a landline call to Lieutenant Dominik for permission, then I’ll see you in about twenty-five minutes.”

“Great. Thanks, Jake.”

Headquarters is located at 633 Indiana Avenue. It is both easy to find and to get lost in if you don’t know where the special units are: Robbery; Auto Theft; Homicide; Narcotics; and the shadowy Intelligence Division, among others.

“Nice to see you, Jake,” said Lieutenant Roberts. As I pulled out the bag of powder, Roberts asked if I had a copy of the 252 (arrest report) with me.

“No. It’s complicated.”

“Let’s go to my office,” said Roberts with a hard edge to his voice. I began to second guess the decision to break the rules. It was evidence – kept overnight in a locker. No paperwork or chain of custody. I promised Carol that I wouldn’t serve her up on this. Like all police departments, however, regulations exist with consequences for disobedience.

“You cut a deal on your own, and you’re not planning to tell me about it. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know you’re in deep shit, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a seat and start talking.”

“Sir, I use a confidential informant with backup time. She is the most reliable and useful CI I’ve ever worked with.”

“Let me hazard a guess: Big Carol in the Zombies.”

I was thunderstruck. How could he know?

“Well, the look on your face tells me I’m right. And if I had been wrong, your next stop would be Trial Board. We know all about Big Carol, her criminal history, and your friendship with her. Why do you think they call us detectives?”

I knew he wasn’t sending me to Trial Board, but Roberts wasn’t showing his hand. He just sat back, studying me.

“We are also working Big Carol. It’s an ugly business, but we live on information more than street cops. You happened to tap one of our best informants, and we tolerated it because she helped you mostly with non-narcotic crimes.”

So, where is this going?

“Speaking of Carol, I have some very bad news, Jake. Early this morning, the Zombies’ manager found her by the trash bins with two in the back of her head, bound and gagged, with a canary in her mouth.”

We looked at each other. The bastards discovered her working both sides of the fence. I was sad and angry at the same time. Except for a few buck action caps, she didn’t deal heroin. Only the new cocaine crowd could be this brazen and cold.

I finally spoke, “What else do we know about the murder?”

“It’s really early. She was helping us with the cocaine problem, and they probably assumed that she was the leak. Homicide is handling the case and may want to question you about her friends, habits – anything that could be helpful. I’m sorry Jake.”

I nodded my head. Maybe Slim Jim was right.

“Jake, on a related matter, we are sure that cocaine is being
distributed through an older, existing heroin network. Unfortunately, we have no idea who the big dog is. Hypothetically speaking, would you be interested in helping us root out this problem?”

“Sure, especially after the execution of Carol. Can you tell me more?”

“No. I want you to go back to your regular duties. FBI agents will be asking neighbors, the mail carrier, and others questions about you over the next few weeks. It’s similar to the background investigation you had to become a policeman, just a little more thorough. You cannot discuss this with anyone. If someone asks, say it’s a routine reinvestigation for your normal police work.”

I approached Mike in the locker room after the shift. “Got time for a beer at Gordy’s? It’s usually quiet at this time.”

“This sounds serious,” said Mike.

“Yeah. Ten minutes?”

“See you there.”

We found a corner booth. I recounted the lunch I had with Preacher and the arrangement with Big Carol. I also confessed about keeping the cocaine and the subsequent conversation with Roberts. I said nothing regarding her death – too soon.

“He cut you a break after all that?” exclaimed Mike.

“Yeah. And it gets stranger. He knew I got the coke from Big Carol, who is one of their CIs. They even have a file on our so-called special relationship. He or his boss requested the FBI to do a reinvestigation of me for a national security clearance, which means they’ll talk to you. I asked him to tell me what this is about, and he said no. He did say there is a cocaine problem in the city, and hypothetically would I be interested in helping? Finally, he made it clear that this conversation never happened. So, I can’t share details of future developments with you.”

“Jesus, Jake. Do you look for trouble or does it just gravitate to you? I sometimes think you’re an adrenalin junkie.”

“Aren’t we all? Maybe some are worse than others.”

Both of us drank our beers in silence.

“What now?” asked Mike.

“I’m to return to my regular duties and wait for a call, I suppose.”

“Jake, they’re going to ask you to go undercover, which is voluntary. You have two problems with that. One, is a lovely wife and solid marriage. Two, being a cop for a long time has made your face too familiar in too many places. Think about the number of times you’ve testified in court. This undercover crap is for fresh-faced rookies.”

“I hear you. Since when has anybody needed a national security clearance to work undercover?”

“Yeah. That’s true, Jake. I don’t know.”

Regular Duties

“Scout 62, a shooting, Willie’s Liquor Store on Kennedy Street; respond code one; an ambulance has been dispatched, 1412.”

“Scout 62 is 10-4,” as I flipped on the light bar, rotated to yelp, and listened to the four barrels open up on the interceptor engine. Expedite driving is dangerous; too many people with slow reflexes, who freeze, or don’t know left from right. I frequently drove with the outside speaker on and the mike nearby to give specific instructions to motorists.

Less than a mile to go.

A small crowd gathered on the sidewalk near the store. Standing nearby was a uniformed special police officer, we call them SPOs, hired by local merchants tired of the robberies.

“That’s Johnson,” said Grabowski, my partner. “Looks like he planted another one.”

“You know this SPO?”

“Yeah, he never misses. Kills a holdup man down here about twice a year. He’s armed and dangerous. Why don’t these
assholes get the message?”

The ambulance had not arrived. I carried the first-aid kit through the milling people to the wounded youth. He was conscious, but had lost a lot of blood. Johnson had shot him three times in a running gun battle as he tried to escape. Two of the wounds were minor, one round, however, had nicked the brachial artery above the elbow. Fresh oxygenated blood was pumping out with each heartbeat. If I couldn’t control the bleeding, then his life would end in a few more minutes. Years ago, I had watched an SPO die of a minor-looking wound which had severed the femoral artery in the leg. Book learning comes alive on the streets.

He was going into shock from the blood loss. His condition left me no choice. I put on a tourniquet two inches above the wound and marked the time. Nerves and muscle below the tourniquet will be severely damaged if it remains in place more than thirty minutes.

The kid asked Grabowski, who was behind me, “Am I going to make it?” First-aid 101 emphasizes reassurance of the victim. Trauma and hemorrhagic shock are the leading killers of men under forty-five in this country.

Grab was slowly shaking his head from side to side.

“No way, kid.”

The ambulance soon arrived, and I gave them the information. Later, I would go to the hospital to interview the kid and make sure his room was under guard. SPO Johnson, pleased with his work, told us what we needed for the report.

Grab asked me if I wanted to join him for lunch next door in Fast Freddie’s Pig Pen (ribs and wings). I begged off and said I’d get a sandwich in the African restaurant across the street.

“Scout 64, take the school crossing at Fourteenth and Upshur, 1510.”

“Scout 64 is 10-4.”

“Scout 64 drop your partner and remain in service as a 10-99 unit.”

“Scout 64 copies.”

Grab gave me a hard stare. As a wagon man, he was a bit short on interpersonal skills.

“Sure, I’ll take it. But don’t leave me there holding my dick after the children are gone.”

“Deal.”

The regular crossing-guard had left sick halfway through the one-hour post. Elementary school kids are fun and curious about everything.

“How many bullets your gun got?”

“Six,” I said.

“How many bad guys you killed?”

“None.”

“Why not?”

“Never had to.”

“What’s
Expert
above your badge mean?”

“Means I’m a good shot.”

“What’s the big, shiny key for?”

“You see that blue box across the street? Inside is a telephone only for police. And this key opens the box.”

“Oh.”

The Power Shift

Time passes faster when you are busy. Sometimes I volunteered for a couple of weeks on the power shift from 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. The most serious criminal activity was concentrated in these eight hours; so two officers manned most of the cruisers. Tonight, my partner was “Country,” who had received some minor injuries in the Zombies’ fight. He was a laid-back, West Virginia boy whose seemingly endless local expressions amused all of us. When one of us did not understand something he said, the
response was usually, “Why do they hire people who don’t speak English?”

The sun had just set and, so far, the workload was relatively light.

“Scouts 62 and 64, a shooting at Cousin Nick’s, Fourteenth and Jefferson; respond code one, 1845.”

“Scout 62 responding.”

“64?”

“64 responding.”

“Use caution, witnesses report a large number of choppers outside.”

As Country and I rode up to the front of Cousin Nick’s, Pagans were pouring out the door and onto their Harley choppers. The use of “Jap Scrap”—their nickname for foreign motorcycles—is forbidden amongst bikers. A few had ape hangers, handlebars so high I wondered how they turned corners. Their colors, with blue letters on a white background and a red border, were visible under the sodium vapor street light above Nick’s. The fully patched Pagans wore the God of Fire patch under the top rocker of their blue denim vests. I watched with contempt as they rode into the night. A violent outlaw motorcycle gang, they have ties to traditional organized crime. Income sources include the production and smuggling of drugs, extortion, arson, and weapons trafficking.

Country turned to me and said, “What’s the plan?”

“Nothing until I hear the siren from Scout 62. Then, we go in, talk to Nick, and look for dead bodies.”

After 62 arrived, we climbed the three steps to Cousin Nick’s and walked inside with our revolvers out and hanging down loosely. I had been to Nick’s quite a few times before. In the center was an old wooden dance floor, surrounded on three sides by booths and assorted tables. The smell of gunpowder was heavy in the air; I thought I smelled a little cordite, dating the ammunition to the late 1940s, probably old military surplus.
Nick pretended to tidy up the bar. Two customers lingered in a corner booth, a hard-looking pair who stared openly at us.

“Nick, where is Dog?” I asked.

Dog was a German shepherd that weighed at least one-hundred pounds and had been trained to attack. I enquired once if he had a name, Nick shrugged and said, “Dog.”

“He’s tied up in the back,” replied Nick.

“Okay, Nick,” I said. “What happened a few minutes ago?”

“A couple of patrons got overexcited about something, and they decided to leave.”

“First, Nick, I will lock you up for obstruction of justice unless you tell us what happened. Second, we are going to search for bodies after your truthful answer.”

“Most of the Pagans were doing speed and alcohol at the same time. Of course, I didn’t actually see any speed, but I just know the signs of a long run.”

“I’m sure you’re a qualified expert,” I deadpanned. “Go on.”

“Two guys began shouting across the room about money from some load. One pulls out a pistol and fires at him. The other shot back as people hit the floor. I fired a twelve-gauge over the head of the first guy, you know, to emphasize I don’t tolerate this shit in my place. I also threatened to put Dog on anybody who pulled out another gun.”

Bullet holes ringed the area above all booths on three sides. Nick and his shotgun were infamous for “maintaining order.”

“I should lock you up for discharging a firearm in the city.”

“Officer, we’ve talked before. I know, for a cop, you’re okay. Please don’t bust me on a hummer.”

“All right, Nick, but we need to look around,” I replied.

“Go ahead. Let me give Dog a treat and check he’s tied down real good.”

A brief search revealed no blood, no bodies. I asked the others if they had any objections to my writing this up as an “incident,” rather than a crime. Nods indicated unanimous consent. I
decided I would not bring Karen here for dinner.

The following night I drew a “reserve officer” as a partner in Scout 65. Except for a different badge and no sidearm, their uniform is almost the same as ours. I’m sure most mean well, but they are volunteers and poorly trained. Nobody wants to ride with them. Instead of answering the radio 10-4, we answered 10-99 with a reserve. The dispatcher had to decide whether to dispatch another car based on workload and the gravity of the run.

Four slow hours had passed with little activity. We had to help the morgue cruiser guy carry a stinker down four flights of stairs in one of those long wire baskets designed for corpses. Cops divide dead bodies into two categories: regulars and stinkers, the latter having been dead for a week or more. The worst words from a landlord are, “He always pays his rent on time. But I haven’t seen him lately, and there’s a bad smell coming from his apartment.”