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Celebrity Encounter by Jim
Posted: March 17, 2014 Filed under: Tales From the Street 10 CommentsIt was the summer of 1967 and I was working the tactical team in the 018th District. Celebrity encounters were not unusual in 018 with the Rush Street night clubs providing popular watering holes for upscale patrons. For my part, none of them were particularly memorable, except perhaps one.
We had a rape pattern working just north of the Rush Street neighborhood, along State and Dearborn streets, between Division and North Avenues. There was a mix of attempt entries along with actual rapes that had occurred during early morning hours from about 3:00 AM to dawn. The bad guy struck mostly on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, or Thursdays for some odd reason. The tact team hours were shifted to allow for intensive plain-clothed foot patrols during the target hours. None of us were too happy, first with being on foot for the entire night, but also because in 1967 there were no hand-held personal radios. We would be completely devoid of any communications with the rest of the district except for four operating call boxes, two on Division Street and two on North Avenue.
The beat cars were alerted to our mission in the event we attempted to wave them down for an assist. Two tact sergeants would be in unmarked vehicles and would cruise State and Dearborn Streets exclusively making frequent visual contact with the foot teams.
The powers that be wanted each two man team to be bi-racial. We were a well-integrated unit, but never-the-less I was separated from my regular partner and assigned to work with Alex, a dark-skinned Louisiana Creole man. We would work well together without a problem but it just added another wild-card to the overall situation. My regular partner and I could anticipate one another in an almost uncanny manner—Alex and I would not enjoy that sixth-sense advantage.
Because there had been several incidents in this pattern, we had a fairly reliable description of the rapist. He was a male black, about 5-10, with a slightly stocky build. Victims and intended victims described his clothing as shabby and unkempt. He had a scruffy beard, bushy hair and body odor. Indications were that we were likely looking for a homeless person.
Alex and I were about an hour into our first night’s assignment. The brightening sky to the east, a precursor to dawn had not yet appeared, if anything, it was the extreme pitch-blackness just prior to sunrise. We were walking south on Dearborn, approaching Division, glancing down each gangway as we proceeded when suddenly we noticed a dark figure hurrying down the gangway toward us. First glance into the shadows told us only that he was a male black.
“Stop, police!” I shouted.
“Let me see your hands!” shouted Alex.
The shadowy figure stopped instantly.
“Whoa,” he said as he held his hands away from his side. “I’m cool.”
“Walk toward us—slowly.”
During street stops, officers are constantly evaluating any threat potential. He walked toward us slowly, as directed as we observed and evaluated.
“I’m cool, I’m cool,” he kept repeating.
As he stepped out of the shadows, we quickly concluded two things. One, he was over six foot tall with a very muscular build. Two, he was clean shaven, well-groomed and well dressed—he was definitely not who we were looking for. I looked at his arms again and thought to myself, let’s not piss him off.
He was now near the sidewalk and Alex and I stood on either side of him.
“You have some ID?” asked Alex
“Sure, sure,” he said as he reached for his back pocket.
“Hold on, hold on,” I said. “Let me pat you down.”
He nodded and held his arms out without saying anything while I gave him a quick pat down. No, I thought to myself, we definitely do not want to piss this guy off.
“Okay, let’s see some ID…” but I was suddenly interrupted by Alex.
“Cassius?” he asked.
The subject nodded I looked quizzically at Alex.
“Cassius Clay,” said Alex.
“Sorry Cassius… didn’t know it was you. We’re looking for a rapist…”
“I know who you’re looking for—my girl told me all about it. She’s on the second floor and all locked up tight—I just dropped her off. Do you want to talk to her?”
“No, that’ll be okay, but we’ll have to do a contact card to show we talked to you,” I said.
“Not that they’ll believe us back at the station,” added Alex as he jotted down the information.
* * * * *
Several things struck me about that night as I reflected on it later. First, Cassius Clay had changed his name to Muhammad Ali some three years earlier to great fanfare in the press, but his official ID in 1967 still carried the name Cassius Clay. And second, even though he was viewed by many as a controversial and polarizing individual, in my personal contact with him on that particular evening, I found him to be personable and self-effacing.
Later I talked to others that had casual social contact with Muhammad Ali over the years and they made the same observations. The brash bravado when the cameras were rolling was, in my mind, a well-crafted marketing hype designed to revitalize the waning sport of boxing. I think he succeeded, not to deny that he was also probably one of the best, if not the best heavy-weight boxer in history. And in light of that, I’m still glad I didn’t piss him off.
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Street Talk by Jay
Posted: March 3, 2014 Filed under: Tales From the Street 9 Comments Follow @JimPadarEvery new recruit is bombarded with information in the police academy. They’re expected to learn countless criminal statutes, local ordinances and Supreme Court rulings. They learn the nomenclature of their weapon, how to break it down, clean it and reassemble it. Recruits have to grasp which offenses get documented on which citation, violation notice or complaint. The police database is filled with contact card information, licensed premise locations and offender data. You just have to know where to click. The information seems endless. To make matters worse, once they hit the street they’re expected to learn a whole new language. A distinct language spoken by those on the street and a distinct language spoken by fellow officers.
Years ago, a young rookie cop was riding with his FTO (Field Training Officer) on a hot summer day when the call came out.
“Fifteen-thirty-one—take the domestic at 4967 W. Washington, second floor. Husband got hurt fighting with the wife. Fire’s not going at this time.”
“Ten-four, on the way, squad.”
The two officers parked the squad in front, walked up to the second floor and listened at the door which was slightly ajar. Only the sounds of running water and a television were heard. With the butt of his holstered pistol in one hand, the FTO slowly pushed the door open with his nightstick. There was mama washing dishes at the sink and papa rocking slowly in an old raggedy recliner watching a black and white TV. A small stream of blood was flowing down his face from the lump on his forehead. The pair entered the hot studio apartment.
“You call the police?” asked the FTO.
“Yep,” said papa.
“What’s the problem?”
“Bitch bust me in the head.”
“What’d she hit you with?”
“The smooth, man—she bust me with the smooth.”
Mama never looked up and continued washing the dishes.
“What’s a ‘smooth’, sir?”
“Right there, on the floor! The smooth.”
Both officers looked where papa is pointing and saw a clothes iron with a small smear of blood on it.
“Is that what she hit you with, sir?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. The smooth. It’s what you smooth the clothes with.”
“Okay. Why did she hit you with the smooth, sir?” said the FTO with the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Bitch said I was hogging the go-around.”
“The what, sir?”
“The go-around, man, the go-around!”
Confused, both officers looked at mama still washing dishes. Without ever looking up, mama gestured with her thumb to the box fan on the kitchen table.
“Okay, your wife hit you in the head with the iron because you weren’t sharing the fan?”
“That’s what I been tellin’ you, man.”
“Do you want an ambulance?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want her locked up?”
“Hell, no!”
“Do you want a report?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want anything from us, sir?”
“Just get out, man.”
“Have a good day, folks.”
The FTO and rookie walk to their car each with a smirk on their face.
“A smooth and a go-around. Those are new ones to me, kid.”
* * * *
A new recruit was fresh out of the police academy and trying to decipher these cryptic radio calls. The dispatcher was spewing out gibberish and apparently the recruit was the only one who didn’t understand.
“Eleven-twelve—our heroes just scooped up a sidewalk inspector and ran him over to holy Tony’s. Check it out and make sure there’s nothing more to it.”
The FTO keyed the mike, called out “Ten four”, hit the gas and headed to the call.
“He probably got rolled,” said the FTO.
That poor rookie had no idea where they were going, what they were supposed to look for or what the problem was. Too embarrassed to ask, he just went along for the ride hoping to put the pieces together himself. The squad slowly pulled into the “Police Only” parking spot at St. Anthony’s Hospital.
“Ah-ha,” thought the rookie to himself. “St. Anthony’s… Holy Tony’s?”
The first piece of the puzzle. The FTO keyed the mike once more and asked, “Squad, what might our heroes be driving tonight?”
The raspy voice of the dispatcher responded, “They’re on ambulance fifty-six.”
“Okay,” thought the rookie. “Our heroes—ambulance fifty-six? Our heroes are the cross-trained firemen/paramedics on ambulance fifty-six. It makes perfect sense now. The police are the public’s bad guys and the firemen are the heroes. Just a couple more and I’ll have this all figured out.”
As the two officers proceeded into the hospital, the FTO called out to the receptionist, “Ambulance fifty-six?” She responded with, “Exam Room Three.” The pair continued on to exam room three and pulled back the curtain. There were our heroes transferring the subject from stretcher to bed. The FTO began the conversation.
“How drunk is he?”
“Oh, he’s three sheets to the wind,” replied the paramedic.
“Any injuries?”
“Nope, just where he did his face plant.”
More pieces of the puzzle. “Drunk… face plant?” The rookie was getting close. “Ah-ha! Sidewalk inspector! They found this drunk face down on the sidewalk! He’s a sidewalk inspector!” It was all coming together—almost there.
“He get rolled?” asked the FTO.
“Nope, wallet’s in his pocket, watch on his wrist and chain on his neck.”
“Rolled,” thought the rookie? “Ah… robbed. He didn’t get robbed.”
“Do some paper on this kid,” said FTO. “I’m gonna try to find Juan Valdez.”
With a smile on his face the rookie thought to himself, “No problem, I’ll start the report while you look for some coffee.”
Street Talk is an ever evolving language. It’s constantly changing, almost impossible to keep up with. What’s some of the Street Talk you’ve encountered?
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Two Very Different Christmases by Jay
Posted: February 3, 2014 Filed under: Tales From the Street | Tags: Chicago Police, Christmas murder, Chritmas, Homicide, murder 9 CommentsNOTE TO OUR READERS: WE’RE MOVING!
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* * * *
I awoke to a very familiar sound. It was that little thump that I’ve grown so very accustomed to; the sound of my four-year-old daughter’s little feet hitting the floor as she slides out of bed. On this day that sound brings a smile to my face. I am not a morning person, however, my daughter is and this morning she will be even more bright and cheery than usual. Today is Christmas, December 25th, 2013. The pitter-patter of those little feet grows louder as my daughter runs into our room. I smile and tense up just slightly knowing that she is about to jump into bed with me and my wife. Her bright eyes, giant smile and big out-of-control bed-head make my grin grow wider.
“Did Santa come last night?” she asks.
“We have to wait for your brother to wake up and then we’ll check,” I reply.
She climbs under the covers and nestles in as I yawn and stretch, still tired from all of the Christmas Eve festivities. I’m fortunate this year to have been off last night and today, but I lean over and grab my department issued Blackberry and start to check my emails. I typically receive an email and numerous updates for each shooting, homicide or major event that has occurred across the city. As I scroll through looking for anything that may have happened overnight in my area of responsibility, one catches my eye. My fellow officers have responded to a call of a homicide on the 2500 block of North Kildare in the city’s Hermosa neighborhood. Upon arrival they have apparently discovered a dismembered body in the basement. I put down my Blackberry and think to myself, there will be a story behind this one.
The previous evening, Christmas Eve, was spent rushing from one family party to another. My four-year-old twins were dressed in their best duds and stayed busy playing with their cousins, many of whom they haven’t seen since last Christmas. My wife and I kept busy chatting and catching up with family we see far too infrequently. After watching a play given by the kids in the family, complete with an emcee, makeshift costumes and a song from the recently released movie “Frozen”, we pack them back into the car and head to the next family party. The snow is falling and the roads are getting more and more slippery, but we can’t be late. We’ve heard that Santa Claus is coming and we can’t miss him. It was another party with plentiful food, good cheer and a couple of presents from Santa just to whet the kids’ appetites. As the evening came to a close, we hustled home, put out cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for his reindeer. We put the kids to bed and began bringing presents up from the basement and placing them under the tree. By the time we made it to bed we were exhausted.
About eight miles southeast, Alex Valdez was slowly becoming exhausted as well, but for very different reasons.
About six months prior, eighteen-year-old Alex Valdez moved into the basement apartment on the 2500 block of North Kildare with his aunt and her boyfriend, Sylvestri Diaz. Alex was to keep a job and contribute to the household expenses; however, he had recently stopped working and was asked to move out. The tensions came to a culmination on Christmas Eve while Alex’s aunt was away at a holiday party. Alex sat in the basement apartment drinking beer and becoming increasingly angry as the thoughts of the impending eviction loomed in his head. At some point Sylvestri Diaz came home to the apartment and had Alex accompany him to the liquor store to buy more beer, but not before Alex hid a hammer by the front door.
Upon returning from the store, Alex retrieved the hammer and smashed Sylvestri in the head several times until he was dead. But the brutality had just begun. Alex cut off Sylvestri’s head and arms with a saw and used a butcher knife to slice off the ears, nose and mouth. The chest of this dismembered body was sliced open from neck to pelvis. The eyes were gouged from their sockets with Alex’s bare hands. The head, ears and nose were left on his aunt’s bed, a “Christmas present,” according to Alex Diaz. After becoming physically drained from this mutilation, Alex called 911 to report a dead body. When asked if he had tried CPR, Alex simply laughed and told the 911 operator that his victim had been decapitated. Responding officers arrived and found Alex Diaz outside covered in blood. Diaz admitted to his crime, was placed in custody and directed officers to a horrific Christmas morning crime scene.
Details of this crime slowly came to light throughout Christmas day. I was again with my family at another two holiday parties, but with each news update my thoughts returned to the officers who responded and made the gruesome Christmas morning discovery. As I was surrounded by family and close friends I wondered how these officers were coping with their holiday. Did they stop at a bar on the way home to clear their heads? Will their families even know where they have just come from and what they’ve just seen? Will they talk about it or lock it away until it disappears? Will they contemplate man’s inhumanity and the vicious death they had just witnessed or will they focus on the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ and the promised salvation and everlasting life to come? Whatever their response, I pray for them to recover quickly, move forward and cherish and embrace their loved ones on this Christmas Day and every Christmas Day to come. I grab my son and daughter as they scurry by, to give them an extra hug, but they squirm loose—they have new toys to explore.
Life goes on… in two different worlds.
10-99 in Cabrini by Jim
Posted: January 20, 2014 Filed under: Tales From the Street | Tags: Cabrini, Chicago Police Department 18 Comments Follow @JimPadarSometimes a bad decision makes for a good story.
The Chicago Police Department was never very big on using “ten-signals” when dispatchers were communicating with units on the street. There are three however, that have been in use for as long as I can remember.
“Ten-one” is Chicago’s euphemism for a police officer calling for help. It is perhaps the most critical call an officer can make and is taken with the utmost seriousness by all units on the street. If you are watching the new television series, Chicago PD, there seems to be at least one “ten-one” on every show. In truth of course, if you monitor your scanner, you find that it is not taken lightly by the working police and is very seldom used. To my knowledge Chicago is the only department that uses that ten signal designation.
“Ten four” is universally understood by any law enforcement officer in the nation. It simply means “okay.” Chicago puts a slight twist on this universal ten-signal however, because in our fair city it means “okay and we are a two person unit.”
Which brings us to “ten ninety-nine” which simply means “okay and I am riding alone.” This terminology is meant to alert the dispatcher that assignment of an assist unit might be appropriate. It works well—most of the time.
With less than a year on the street, I was working a two-person beat car in the infamous Cabrini housing projects on our city’s near north side. We were working the Saturday-Sunday midnight shift, midnight to 8:30 am. I am sure the dispatcher had the line-up and that it designated us a ten-four unit. But for some reason that escapes me these many years later, at some point during the tour of duty, my partner was excused and I became a ten-ninety-nine unit. There was a heavy police presence in our district and although I was bit nervous, I resolved to wait for my assist unit before exiting the squad on any assignment. I would be fine.
It was nearing the end of my tour of duty and it was very cold. The bad guys seemed to have retired for the night and the radio was extremely quiet. Nothing was going on.
“Eighteen-eleven, take the stolen auto report, 1117 Cleveland, apartment 1407. See a Mrs. Washington”
“Ten ninety-nine,” I responded and I paused, waiting for the assignment of an assist unit. This was the notorious Cabrini housing project after all.
And I waited. The radio was silent. So I summoned my five whole months of police experience and considered the situation. A stolen auto report; under normal circumstances this would be an assignment for a one-man car, but this was Cabrini. At this hour of the morning and given the extreme cold, there was no one on the street, but this was Cabrini. Maybe the dispatcher, with eons more experience than me, divined that circumstances did not indicate an assist necessary, but this was Cabrini. It never occurred to me that he had my unit marked as a two-man car and that he might have missed my ten-ninety nine response.
So I pondered the assignment as I drove slowly over to the Cleveland address. What to do?
I sat in front of the building for a few moments and looked things over. There was not a soul to be seen. The complainant was a woman, so that sounded legit I thought. I donned my gloves and put a blank stolen auto case report on my clip board and trudged toward the building. My lifeline, my radio, remained firmly affixed to the dashboard of my squad—there were no personal portable radios in 1967.
I was in luck; the elevator for the even-number floors was in service, urine soaked, but in service.
I cautiously exited the elevator on fourteen and looked both directions toward the stairwells at each end of the exterior walkway. The soft glow over the lake to the east had matured into actual rays of sun. They filtered their way through the downtown buildings as individual shafts of light, creating a surreal stage lighting effect on the deserted 14th floor ramp. No one was in sight. Apartment 1407 would be all the way down to my left, near the stairs. I approached, knocked on the door and waited for Mrs. Washington to respond.
Suddenly I felt a silent presence and turned to discover three men standing just behind me. They grinned, not a friendly grin, but a we got ya type of smirk. The hairs on the back of my neck raised. With clipboard in hand, my revolver hanging off my equipment belt was actually closer to their hands than mine. My mind raced. I was a tactical disadvantage. Maybe a spin to my left to put my weapon out of reach? But I knew for certain it would be a short futile struggle.
Suddenly Mrs. Washington opened her apartment door and the five us froze for just an instant. She looked and saw a uniformed police officer surrounded by three men with insolent grins. What next? The woman gave them a hard look and then did something amazing; she admitted me to her apartment and then quickly closed the door firmly behind me and turned the deadbolt lock.
“Mrs. Washington?” I asked, trying vainly to sound nonchalant.
“Yes,” she answered slowly.
“Do you know those men?”
“No.”
“May I use you phone?”
“I think you’d better,” she replied.
I dialed a confidential number that routed me directly into the zone two dispatch consoles.
“Hey, this is eighteen-eleven. I’m at 1117 taking a stolen auto report. I think you better send me an assist so I can get out of this building.”
“Are you ten-ninety-nine?” he asked incredulously.
“Well… yeah.”
“Chuck, have you got eighteen-eleven in Cabrini as a ten-ninety-nine? he asked the dispatcher.
“Eleven is a ten-four unit… it says so right here on my line-up,” answered the dispatcher.
“No, my partner was excused at 0300,” I interrupted.
“Oh shit,” was the response on the telephone. “We’ll send you an assist—stay where you’re at until they get there. You’re at 1117 in 1407?”
“That’s right.”
“Now, Mrs. Washington, sorry for the delay. Can we start this stolen auto report while I wait for some backup?”
Order in the Court
Posted: October 18, 2013 Filed under: Tales From the Street | Tags: Chicago, Chicago Police, Courtroom, Defendant, District attorney, Happy Birthday to You, Judge 31 Comments Follow @JimPadarAuthor’s Note: Names have been changed or omitted to protect the foolish.
Many people are most accustomed to a grandiose vision of a courtroom, rich mahogany panels, distinguished black-robed judges, lawyers in freshly pressed suits and ties and police officers in crisp class A uniforms. On a daily basis, the reality was something entirely different—especially during the late 60’s and 70’s at the Cook County Criminal Court at 2600 South California on Chicago’s near south side.
Branch 57 was Narcotics Court and most mornings it was a zoo. Preliminary hearings were held here for the overnight arrests. Many of the officers in court had spent the previous hours working, or if not, they were short on sleep, having drawn the short straw on who was going to attend court.
Street uniforms were the order of the day, often soiled and dusty with the flotsam and jetsam that accumulates during a tour of duty on the streets of Chicago. No trials were held here, the judge listened to the circumstances of the arrest and rendered a decision as to whether or not the defendant should be held for trial.
The judge was a character who stood and walked more than he sat. His robe was seldom closed and when he gestured, wildly at times, it would fly open revealing an unkempt open collared shirt. He drank his coffee during the proceedings, but the cup always had a tight lid lest the hot liquid spill while he was flailing his arms.
George Grady, the state’s attorney was a sharp young man who would later also become a judge. He was not afraid to argue his point with great enthusiasm.
He guided one officer through the circumstances of his case:
“What was the nature of the call officer?”
“It was a man with a gun in the pool hall.”
“And will you tell the court what you found when you arrived on the scene?”
“Well we did not find a man with a gun, but we observed the defendant coming out of the men’s room.”
“And then what did you do?”
“We patted down his outer clothing and felt a suspicious bulge in his trouser pocket.”
“And did you have an occasion to determine what the bulge was?” asked Grady.
“”Yes sir,” replied the officer. “It was what is known on the street as a nickel bag of marijuana.”
“The state rests your honor.”
“That’s it?” asked the judge spreading his arms apart. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”
“I said the state rests judge.”
“Then I say no probable cause. That’s an illegal search.”
“Your honor! How can you say that?” responded Grady raising his voice. “They were responding to a man with a gun call!”
“You mean to tell me, Mister Grady, that if the police received a call of a man with a gun in this courtroom, they could search everybody?” The judge was shouting now, walking and waving, his robe flying.
“No, of course not, that’s different.”
“Then tell me Mister Grady,” still shouting. “What’s the difference between this courtroom and a pool hall?”
“Very little your honor—very little!”
The judge stopped in mid stride and whirled to face the state’s attorney. He paused a moment as laughter rippled through the courtroom and then he joined the laughter.
“Point taken Mister Grady, I guess I asked for that, but the case is dismissed.”
* * * *
In another courtroom and defendant had been found guilty of burglary and the judge sentenced him to two years in the Vandalia Correctional Center.
“But your honor,” protested the defendant. “Today is my birthday. It’s not right to sentence someone to prison on their birthday!”
The judge turned to the state’s attorney.
“Is that right? Is today his birthday?”
The state’s attorney paged through the arrest records.
“Yes, your honor, today is his 18th birthday.”
The judge rose. The odd conversation had captured the spectator’s attention. Would the judge even consider modifying the sentence based upon the fact that it was the defendant’s birthday? All eyes were on the judge as, still standing, he leaned over the rail toward the young man and began to sing in a rich baritone:
“Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Two years in Vandalia,
Happy Birthday to you!”
* * * *
It was a summertime homicide trial in the same building. We were on one of the upper floors and the heat was nearly suffocating. Two large fans ran in a vain attempt to cool the participants. I was on the stand and after questions from both the prosecutor and the defense attorneys, the judge stopped me as I was about to step down.
“Be seated detective,” he said. “I want to ask you a question”
I turned in my seat and for the first time I had a full view of him and it was a sight to behold. The judge had hiked his robe up to his waist, rolled his pants above his knees and his socks down to his shoes. His knees were widely spread and he was fanning his lower body with the morning paper.
I don’t remember what his question was, nor do I remember what I answered. But when I returned to my seat and looked back at him, he was a picture of dignity and decorum —at least from the waist up.
The Wrong Guy
Posted: August 30, 2013 Filed under: Tales From the Street | Tags: autopsy, Cartridge (firearms), Chicago, Chicago Police, Detectives, Homicide, Kedzie Avenue, murder, Pulaski Road 30 Comments Follow @JimPadarJust after midnight the black limo with heavily tinted windows pulled to the curb in front of White’s Shrimp House on Chicago’ west side. Before the chauffeur could exit, Leon Woods opened the door, stepped out to the sidewalk and turned to help Theresa Dodson from the car. Before she could slide across the seat to grab his hand, Woods turned suddenly and exchanged words with a young man. A shot punctuated the Saturday night noises and for a moment everyone was quiet. Woods crumpled to the ground, curled into a fetal position and moaned softly. The young man fled east towards Kedzie Avenue.
“Woody! Woody!” screamed Theresa as she stumbled from the car and knelt next to her boyfriend.
The chauffeur ran around the front of the car and started east after the gunman, but he had disappeared, so he ran into White’s to call the police.
I was working days with another new homicide detective. Even though we were both experienced street cops, between the two of us, Jason Moore and I had less than 18 months homicide experience, but we perceived ourselves to be sharp and we worked well together.
At the Sunday 8:30 AM roll call the Sergeant called our names.
“Padar, Moore, you guys have a fresh one from last night. We just got the call that he died on the table at Cook County. See the midnight crew, they can bring you up to speed. The midnight detectives were just finishing a lengthy Aggravated Battery Supplemental Report when they got the word that Woods had expired.
“You guys are fresh,” they told Jason and me. “Why don’t you retype this and reclassify to a Homicide/Murder Supplemental?”
Jason and I looked at on another… we were new but not dumb and the last thing we wanted to do was spend the next several hours retyping someone else’s report.
“Why don’t you guys just retype the first page reclassifying? The rest of the pages will be the same. We’ll cover the new information in our report at the end of the day.”
They looked at us as if we were trying to trick them somehow.
“That’ll work,” said the older detective after a moment’s reflection.”
Jason and I headed out the door to re-interview Theresa Dodson.
“Hey! You guys!” shouted the midnight crew. “They found this under his body… don’t know what it means, but we’re going to inventory it as possible evidence.
We stopped and looked at an extension cord that had been wrapped in black electrical tape.
“Looks like a homemade blackjack. Are we sure it was his?”
“We don’t know, but it was under his body, so most likely it belonged to him.”
After some difficulty, we found Theresa at her sister’s apartment where she had gone after leaving the hospital while Woods was still in surgery. Thankfully, she had been notified of Woods death before we arrived. Although distraught, she agreed to talk with us about the shooting. She seemed sincere and anxious, but she couldn’t tell us much.
It was the one year anniversary of their first date and her boyfriend wanted to make it a special night. He hired a limousine and driver and they were to spend the night hopping from club to club. Around midnight they were hungry and they stopped at White’s Shrimp House for a late night snack. Her dear Woody was shot as he exited the limo.
She had the impression that Woods had exchanged words with the shooter, but she didn’t hear the conversation. After the shooting, she went to Woods side and did not pay any attention to the gunman. She thought he appeared young and was wearing jeans and a tan tee-shirt. Woods lay moaning softly until the ambulance arrived—he did not speak. The homemade blackjack belonged to Woody—he carried it for protection. To the best of her knowledge, he did not own any firearms.
Leon Woods worked with his father in a wholesale import business on Pulaski Road. It was family owned and he spent 5 ½ to 6 days a week at the warehouse. He had no enemies to her knowledge.
As we were concluding Theresa’s interview, we received word that Woods’ autopsy was about to begin and since our “morgue man” was day-off, our office sent us to observe.
As we arrived, Woods had just been moved from a morgue tray to an examination table. There was evidence of the large closed surgical incision, but as the diener (the pathologist’s assistant) opened the abdominal cavity, it was filled with free blood. A single bullet hole was located about four inches above the naval. After clearing the blood, examination of the liver showed evidence of a lacerating bullet wound and attempted surgical repair.
“They should have had a successful outcome… it’s unusual for County to drop the ball on a case like this,” said the pathologist as he gave us a running narrative.
He gently removed the liver and handed it off to the diener.
“Ah, but they were doomed along with Mister Woods,” said the doctor as he suctioned residual blood .
“Look here!” he exclaimed. The bullet transversed the liver and lodged at the edge of the anterior spine, but look, look right here.”
He took the handle of the scalpel and gently probed the aorta, exposing a small ¼” laceration.
“The bullet nicked the aorta. The surgeons were dealing with a blood filled abdominal cavity and a lacerated liver. But hidden deep behind the liver was a second more serious hemorrhage source, the aorta. I doubt anyone could have saved him.”
After photographs, he gently removed what appeared to be a .25 caliber bullet. We would be looking for a .25 caliber semi-automatic pistol as the murder weapon, but if it was a semi-auto, where was the shell casing?
We checked back with the office where the midnight crew had finished their report. No casing was mentioned—in fact, the scene had not been processed as a homicide. At the time of the initial investigation, Leon Woods was a shooting victim, not a murder victim.
Jason and I headed back to the sidewalk in front of White’s Shrimp House. With the aid of bright sunlight, we found a shiny.25 caliber shell casing nestled in a crack of the sidewalk. The mobile crime lab responded, took pictures and recovered the casing.
We looked to the east. Witnesses had reported that the shooter had fled in that direction and quickly disappeared. Several doors down was a shoe shine parlor. It was a large establishment with about a dozen shine stations along one wall and chairs for waiting customers along the other. Manned mostly by teenagers from the neighborhood, it was a thriving business. The owner did not tolerate alcohol or drug use on the premises and the boys worked hard and probably made a good buck. It was favored by cop and civilian alike, some coming from great distances. In my estimation, it was by far the best shoe shine in the city.
Jason and I decided we both needed a shine and as we walked in we were immediately descended upon by the boys.
“Shine officer?” they shouted over one another. They recognized detectives and uniformed officers with equal accuracy. They knew that the owner would not charge the police and most officers tipped generously, double the cost of the shine. We were desirable customers.
We settled into our chairs and casually inquired if our polishers had been working last night. We dared not ask anything more with the other boys all ears. We finished and tipped the boys and approached the owner at the counter. He waved us out, indicating that the shines were on the house, but we stopped and asked him if he was there last night at the time of the shooting.
Yes, he had been there, no, no one had seen the shooting from inside the shop. Yes, he would call if he learned anything. Fat chance. We left business cards.
Jason and I had inherited the case from the midnight crew. It was technically their case, but it would be difficult for them to do any in depth investigation during midnight hours. We tackled the assignment with great enthusiasm.
Witnesses were re-interviewed and then interviewed again. The best of the lot was the limo driver who described the shooter as 5” 10”, dark complexion, wearing a tan tee-shirt and blue jeans. He had run east on Madison and disappeared quickly.
After a week, the investigation languished. We felt the key to the case was in the shoe shine parlor. It was a community gathering place and while the gunman might not be one of the boys, we felt that they knew who it was and in fact we strongly suspected that the shooter may have fled through the store to the alley to make good his escape. But no one was talking.
Eventually, our nearly constant pressure in the 3200 block of west Madison made enough people so nervous that bits and pieces of anonymous tips and clues began to filter into us. It was all second or third hand information, none of which could be attributed to any individual:
- The shooter was not from the neighborhood
- The shooter was not one of the boys at the shoe shine parlor
- The shooter did run through the store to the alley behind
- Most all of the workers at the shoe shine parlor knew who he was
Most of the information came from emissaries of business people in the area. In short, they didn’t want us hanging around constantly—it was bad for business. We could care less of course—we would continue to stop in every day until we got something substantial enough to clear the case. We needed to step up the pressure somehow.
Jason and I came up with a plan. We would find one of the shoe shine workers who most closely matched the description of the offender and bring him in for questioning. It was certainly a legitimate thing to do, question someone on the basis of a physical description. Hopefully skilled questioning would yield information that would help us identify the real killer. It all seemed so simple, but in reality it would lead us down the path of multiple errors in judgment, born in part of our inexperience. Would we blow the case entirely?
The hapless lad was Larry Wilson, age 17. He was 5’ 10”, dark complexion and on the day we snatched him from the shoe shine parlor, he was wearing a tan tee-shirt and blue jeans. We put the word out on the street that Larry was our man and he would be charged with murder. Nothing could be further from the truth of course—we had no case against him other than his physical description.
Back at the homicide office we cajoled Larry with the promise that if he was the wrong guy, giving us information leading to the right guy would earn his immediate release. Larry was a pleasant young man, but he told us nothing. Time to increase the pressure—thus began our series of mistakes.
We could have held a faux lineup and told Larry he was identified as the offender. But we contacted our best witness, the chauffeur, and held a real line-up and much to our surprise, the chauffeur positively identified Larry Wilson as the shooter. Because Jason and I were inexperienced, our supervisors were doing their job and watching us closely. Of course we had not advised them of our masterful scheme and they were convinced we had cleared the case by the arrest of Wilson. Department regulations required us to notify the States Attorneys’ office in any case where a lineup identification was made. Jason and I were convinced that the chauffeur was basing his identification solely on the clothing Larry Wilson was wearing but the Assistant States Attorney wasn’t buying it. He advised us to book Larry and charge him with murder.
Our pleas for release, or at least delay, fell on deaf ears. Both our supervisors and the ASA felt we had done a fine job wrapping up the case and making an arrest. Larry Wilson had remained silent, offering neither a denial nor an alibi. He was transported to Central Detention to await a bond hearing.
For the next several days at morning roll call when the sergeant asked each team what homicide they were working, we would respond.
“Woods.”
“Woods is cleared. Pick another case.”
“But we got the wrong guy!”
“You can’t work a cleared case, pick another one.”
We would reluctantly give him another name, but when we hit the street, we worked the Woods homicide.
Back at the shoe shine parlor on West Madison, if we were greeted coolly before, we definitely were persona non grata now. Our shoes had been shined about a half dozen times in the preceding days, but when we walked in now, none of the boys pleaded for our business.
“Look,” we told the owner. “We don’t think Larry did this either, but if you want to help him, you’ll have to help us find the right guy.”
A week went by and Larry Wilson was assigned an initial court date well into the following month. It was a Friday about noon when we popped into the shine parlor once again. The owner nodded to us, the first recognition he had afforded us since Larry’s arrest. Then he looked to the far end of the counter and nodded to an older gentleman who had watched us walk in. We approached him and he held out his hand as if to shake ours. I felt a slip of paper in my palm, but I kept my fist closed.
“What’s this?” I asked in a low voice.
“It’s the right guy,” he answered as he turned and walked away. We needed to know who the old man was so we headed back to the owner.
“Who is that?” we asked.
“Larry’s grandfather. Don’t worry man… he’s solid… to the bone, but he won’t talk to you. Ya jus gotta take what comes to ya.”
We drove several blocks away before we stopped and opened the crumpled piece of paper. Scribbled in pencil was:
“Herman Wilson, Goldmine, Apt 510”
Both Jason and I had worked the Cabrini projects and we recognized “Goldmine” as being the ghetto designation for the building at 714 West Division Street. We stopped by the 018th District, cornered a friendly Youth Officer, and ran an alpha name check on Herman Wilson. He had a juvenile record for burglary and a couple of curfews and he lived at 714 West Division in Apartment 510. He was now 17, which under Illinois law made him an adult.
Jason and I stopped for lunch and took a booth in a far corner of the restaurant.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“We pick him up, of course,” said Jason.
“And then what.”
“He must suspect that we know something,” said Jason. “If he’s the right guy, he might even be expecting us… you know, the homicide mystique.”
I laughed.
“Yeah, we’re so mysterious we arrested the wrong guy.”
“Let’s just come on strong and confident, let him think it’s all over except the paperwork, and see were that takes us.”
“Oh I love these crystal clear plans,” I said. “What could go wrong?”
“That doesn’t sound ‘strong and confident,’ Jim. Do you have a better plan?”
“You mean a better plan than no plan?” I answered sarcastically.
“Okay, I’m listening…” said Jason… silence.
“Alright, let’s do it, but I just don’t want to dig ourselves a bigger whole,” I answered, not exactly strongly or confidently.
We had a Task Force unit meet us at the 714 building and on the fifth floor we pounded on the door to apartment 510. A heavyset black woman answered.
“Herman Wilson,” we said without further explanation. She held the door open and we cautiously stepped in.
“Herman!” she called. “You ‘all come here boy… they’re here for you.”
Jason and I glanced at one another with raised eyebrows. Mama didn’t seem surprised. We searched Herman thoroughly and then cuffed him behind his back, looping the handcuff chain through his belt.
“Herman,” I said, “You’re under arrest for murder, you have the right to remain silent, you have the right…” I ran through the Miranda warnings, mostly for effect—we normally did that back at the station in the interview room.
“How’d you find him?” asked Mama.
“We’re detectives ma’am’, it’s what we do,” I answered curtly. This “strong and confident” thing was growing on me.
Once out in the squad, Herman tried to speak…
“You probably…”
“We don’t want to hear it,” I cut him off. “It’s all over, Herman.”
We pulled out onto Division Street and headed west. We caught the red light at Halsted and Herman tried again.
“You probably won’t believe me, but…”
Jason was driving but he turned in his seat.
“Believe what, Herman?”
“I threw the gun off the bridge right up here”
We stopped just short of the single lane bridge over the Chicago River.
“Where?”
“I’ll show you… right up here.”
We exited the car and the Task Force unit pulled up behind us.
“He’s showing us where he threw the gun,” we explained.
“What kinda gun was it?” I asked.
“A little one, a 25 automatic. On the way home I got scared and threw it in the river.”
“What happened that night?” asked my partner in a kinder gentler tone.
“I was coming out of the Shrimp House when this gangster pulls up in a black limo with tinted windows. He looked at me and reached under his coat and started to pull out something black… I got scared and shot him.”
“How many times?” I asked.
“Just once, he went right down and I ran.”
“What was he pulling on you?”
“I don’t know, but he dropped it when I shot.”
“Where did you run?”
“Towards Kedzie Avenue, but I cut through the shine parlor. Those kids in there didn’t have anything to do with this, I swear… I just ran through there to the alley and then walked home. I threw the gun in the river when I crossed the bridge.”
Ten minutes later we were marching Herman Wilson into the Area Four Homicide office on west Maxwell Street.”
“Who’s this?” asked the sergeant.
“The right guy… the Woods homicide… and his story is corroborated by what actually happened.”
It was mid-afternoon on a Friday when I found myself and a States Attorney along with Larry Wilson standing in front a bewildered judge explaining why we wanted Larry released immediately.
“Well…” said the judge as he pondered the facts. “This case is not on my docket, but I understand that Judge Murphy has left for the day. I won’t interfere in his case, but I’ll release Larry Wilson to your custody, Detective. You have him back in Murphy’s court first thing Monday morning, do you understand?”
I nodded, but I didn’t understand. Released to my custody? What the hell did that mean? Was I supposed to bring this kid home with me for the week-end?
Back at our Maxwell Street office I walked in with Larry in tow and as we passed the interview room where Herman was manacled to the wall, they caught each other’s eye and almost imperceptibly nodded to one another.
In the office, out of earshot I asked Larry Wilson if he knew Herman Wilson.
“He’s my cousin,” answered Larry.
“Did you know he did this?” I asked.
Larry hung his head and nodded.
“And you were going to take a murder rap for him?”
“Well, when we was kids, we burglarized a factory. He got caught and I got away… he never told on me, so I wasn’t going to tell on him.”
“Larry,” I said patiently, “Do you understand the difference between a juvenile burglary and an adult murder?”
Larry looked at me, totally mystified.
I dropped Larry off at his home near Central and Lake Streets… with the warning that I would hunt him down and kill him if he wasn’t waiting for me Monday morning.
“Larry, do you know that if you go back to court with me Monday, this will all be over… but if you don’t, you’ll either be dead or back in jail depending on who finds you first. Understand?”
Larry nodded silently. He met me at the appointed time Monday and his case was dismissed. I bought him lunch and drove him back home.
Herman Wilson went to trial for murder about 2 ½ years after his arrest. He spent the whole time in custody. At a bench trial, the judge found him guilty of voluntary manslaughter, based upon the “black object” that victim Leon Woods was pulling from under his coat. Herman was sentenced to 5 years in prison, but the remaining portion of his sentence was suspended.
And the two rookie homicide detectives, Jason and me, considered the whole case a learning experience. Jason left the department a few years later in a major career change. I stayed on of course, vowing never to repeat the same mistakes twice.
On Being a Cop... 