The two old men purchased a pitcher of beer at the bar and then moved into the very back booth of the quiet neighborhood tavern.

“I’m tellin’ ya, I can’t do it any more.”

“What’s that?”

“Drive down here… it’s too much, the traffic, the trucks…”

“You were born and raised in this city for chrissake. What’s the matter with you??”

“Ya, so how many times a year do you drive up to see the wife and me?”

They smiled and the conversation turned to grandchildren.

After a while they lapsed into an easy silence and looked each other in the eye.

* * *

The two young teenagers worked hard at their cleanup assignment in the ROTC drill hall. They had met as incoming freshmen and immediately sensed a bond. They worked well together and enjoyed one another’s company. The chairs were folded and stacked. The flags covered, wastebaskets emptied. They stopped and admired their work.

“I want you to be best man at my wedding,” blurted out the one youngster.

“And I want you to be best man at my wedding,” replied the other, dead serious.

They looked shook hands and looked each other in the eye—and there it was—the silent connection: “We don’t even have girlfriends.” They laughed. It was at once the most ludicrous conversation and the most poignant pledge two fourteen olds could put together. And it was their first connection but they hardly noticed.

* * *

The two high school seniors mopped the basement floor in preparation for the evening graduation party. There were girlfriends now and other close friends that did not approve, resulting in a big time eighteen-year-old type crisis. They worked in total silence but the connection was humming this time. They finished and brought their mops over to the twin utility sinks. They stopped rinsing for a moment and looked each other in the eye and for the first time spoke aloud.

“Why are we thinking what we’re thinking?” By now the connection was a natural phenomenon.

“We know what we have to do… but after the party. No point in spoiling everybody’s night.”

The connection came more frequently and naturally now, not continuous of course, but from time to time, always unspoken. It was often enough and ordinary enough that they never stopped to question it or analyze what was happening.

* * *

The two servicemen sat in the back seat of the sedan, heading back to base after a night of more than too much to drink. It started with an elbow to the ribs, and then some closed fists to the torso. Neither would back off or retreat and it soon escalated to bare knuckle punches to the face and head. Now there was blood and the driver and front seat passenger pulled off the road to tug them apart.

“Hey you assholes! If the MP’s come by we’ll all wind up in a cell…”

There was a bloody lip and the other had an eye that was purple and starting to close. They winced when they touched their faces but the two reached out and gave one another a playful cuff on the back of the head. They caught each other’s glance and connected briefly. “Hey, that was fun!” They laughed.

* * *

It was the ultimate guy’s getaway road trip and Yellowstone National Park was the midpoint. The two young men drove off road onto a fire trail. The old Buick’s suspension creaked and groaned over the ruts, but they found a spot to pitch the tent for the night. Park regulations strongly encouraged the use of designated campsites, but then that wouldn’t be the wilderness. Bears were their most serious concern so they parked the car some fifty yards from the tent and left all the food items locked inside. After dark the starlight and moonlight actually cast faint luminescent shadows through the trees. But they had driven for the past twenty hours and could barely climb into the tent. It was a warm night and they lay atop their sleeping bags and were instantly asleep.

In the middle of the night came the unmistakable sound of scratching at the foot of the tent. He worked his foot free of the sleeping bag and scratched the inside of the canvas. Yep, that was the sound and it was instantly answered by another scratch. Bear! What to do? His heart was pounding now. Was he sure? Try it again. Scratch… answering scratch. Suddenly the connection clicked in.

“Is that you?”

“Yeah, is that you?”

“Jagoff!” he said aloud.

“Me? You’re the jagoff…”

They laughed. They would tell the story many times over once back home, but neither of them would mention the connection.

* * *

The widower stood near the front of the funeral parlor close to his wife’s casket. He was in control, or maybe just in shock. His three young sons would not be allowed here he had decided. His friend approached and a tentative handshake turned into a hug and then the two of them embraced and sobbed. They found that tears came more easily with age. They parted and looked each other in the eye. They were both overwhelmed and neither could speak, but they connected.

“It’s not supposed to be this way.”

“I know, I know.”

* * *

The old man broke eye contact and refilled his friend’s glass and for the first time in several minutes spoke aloud.

“We’re not there anymore,” he said, “And we can never go back”

“I know… that’s probably a good thing. There were good times and bad times. Funny how you tend to remember mostly the good times,” he said staring intently now, into his friends eyes.

“Stop it! You know it’s not just the eyes… it comes when it wants to.”

“Wouldn’t it be neat if we could turn it on whenever we wanted?”

“No, that would be creepy. Leave it be. This way it’s just a natural kinda… kinda…something.” He filled his own glass, set the pitcher down and glanced across the table.

“See! It is the eyes!”

“No is isn’t!”

“Is too!”

They laughed aloud.

“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear.”

–Mark Twain

What scares cops? I mean what really scares cops?

I guess a good general answer is: Not much.

If we want to be more specific, the answer becomes murky, more complicated. In reviewing this story in my mind before setting this account to the printed page, I think a good answer that most police officers would agree with is “the unknown.” Tactics can be taught in the academy and honed on the street with years of experience, but no matter the breadth of training and experience there come the incidents that have no safe, tactically defined approach. You master your fear, tough it out and do what you have to do.

It was a late summer evening, cool enough for a light jacket, especially after the sun had set. Mike and I were working homicide, driving west on Madison Street in the 3800 block. About 25 yards ahead of us a young man came darting out of a gangway, looking over his shoulder,  running from right to left into traffic. He reached the traffic lane directly in front of us when a very loud shot rang out from the gangway. He went face down, rolled onto his back, staring at the gangway as he tried to use his legs to push himself further away to no avail. He lost consciousness almost immediately.

Mike picked up the microphone and shouted.

“Seventy-four–o-seven. Emergency! We have an on view shots fired, man shot on the street at 3830 West Madison.”

I eased our car closer to the victim but remained about 10 yards back from the gangway. I put the car in park, positioning it to shield the victim from traffic. We paused for a moment to hear if our dispatcher had read our message. He did.

“Attention cars on City-Wide, we have a homicide unit with shots fired on the street and a man shot at 3830 West Madison.”

This was the 011^th District and we knew that in a matter of seconds City-Wide units would be on the scene with District units close behind, delayed only by the time it took their dispatcher to relay the call. We approached the victim slowly with our revolvers drawn, all the while glancing warily at the dark gangway to our right. The victim appeared to be unarmed and unconscious. A Task Force unit arrived with siren wailing from the opposite direction and positioned their car to shelter the victim from the west.

“Call an ambulance,” we shouted as we headed to the gangway.

“You guys got a description?” they called to us.

“Negative—the shot came from the gangway.”

We got to the mouth of a narrow gangway, not more than four feet wide, lined with solid brick walls on both sides for the entire length. No cover, no concealment. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air as we peered down the dim length of the now empty passageway. Mike and I slowly crept towards the rear, revolvers drawn, sitting ducks for anyone who might suddenly reappear at the far end. It seemed a hundred yards long when in reality it was probably no more than a hundred feet.  These are the moments when cops hear their own heartbeat. After an eternity the rear opened onto a narrow lot occupied by a small construction office trailer. The lights were on and the door was ajar. We approached, again very slowly, remaining on the ground level as we gently pushed the door at the top of two stairs. An older black gentleman had his back to us as he carefully hung a shotgun on the far wall. We waited until he turned towards us, empty handed.

“Police! Keep your hands where we can see them.”

“I’m okay, I ain’t did nothin’.” He looked harmless… even kindly as he responded. Maybe he was threatened by the gunman also.

Mike spoke first.

“Did you shoot that boy?”

“Yassuh, I capped that niggah’s ass. He kept messing with me. I tole him not to mess with me no mo.”

Moments later we exited the gangway onto the sidewalk. Mike had his hand on the handcuff chain as he walked the prisoner out. I carried the shotgun.

“That was fast!” commented the Task Force unit.

“Ya, we don’t fuck around,” I answered with a smart ass air of confidence and just a bit of swagger.

The scene out front had changed dramatically since we had entered the gangway. Marked squads were curb to curb. Paramedics had cut away the teenager’s pant leg and were applying a dressing to the worst area of a buckshot wound. The boy was awake and alert now laying in a puddle of urine. Perhaps he had just fainted from fright.

The distinctive wail of a lone Chicago Police siren heralded the arrival of still another unit. A homicide car pulled into the center of the milieu.

“Didn’t you get the disregard?” I asked as our cohorts from Area Four rolled down their windows.

“Yeah, we were on the south side, but we kept coming because you sounded scared.”

I looked them straight in the eye, searching for a hint of insult or sarcasm but found none. I saw instead an expression of genuine concern that cops will seldom admit to. I diverted my eyes to the pavement before I replied.

“Yeah…

…well…

…maybe that’s ’cause we were scared.”

• Synchronicity: A term coined by Carl Jung to explain what he believed to be the underlying order of the universe that manifests itself through meaningful coincidences that cannot be explained by cause and effect.

• Coincidence: God’s way of remaining anonymous. –Albert Einstein

One morning in January 1975, Jack Regan, my Homicide Sergeant threw an arrest report on my desk and said, half joking, “Hey, maybe this is your uncle.”

I looked at the mug shot and arrest sheet of a Rocco Padovoni that he had retrieved from the Robbery office next door. Could be, I thought, but who could say for sure? He had been arrested for the armed robbery of a Fannie Mae Candy store while using a blank pistol. His record indicated that at age 58, he had spent the vast majority of his adult life in Illinois State Prisons. He was soon to be headed back.

Literally over a hundred years ago in Baragiano, Italy our name had been Padovani. The guys in the unit knew that my family name had been mangled, first at Ellis Island in the 1890′s, then again when my dad and his older brother became wards of the state at Maryville Orphanage, and then one last time around 1924 when my father—perhaps not so inexplicably—dropped the last three syllables from his thoroughly corrupted surname.

I brought Rocco’s mug shot and arrest record home and he became sort of a scurrilous inside family joke, a real live authentic armed robber that might be my uncle. He became a living family legend, an armed desperado no less. Our very own family felon. Truth was, he favored sticking up Fannie Mae Candy stores with plastic guns. A poor soul that had fallen through the cracks of meager social services and had become institutionalized to the point where he found comfort and security in a prison setting. But I didn’t know that at the time.

Then in the early 80′s I was doing some genealogy research that confirmed Rocco Padovoni was in fact my uncle, a product of a second marriage of my grandfather. Our family’s sly references to Rocco only increased. Oh, we were so smug and clever.

To add fuel to the fire, at the age of 74, Uncle Rocco was arrested during the 1990 Christmas season, sticking up another Fannie Mae Candy Store. The newspapers reported he walked with a cane, was blind in one eye, and once again used a plastic gun. The responding officers were directed to a bus stop outside the candy store where he was waiting for his getaway vehicle, a CTA bus. Uncle Rocco pleaded guilty—he always pleaded guilty— and the Judge sentenced him to “intensive” probation, whatever that is. Somehow our image of an armed felon faded a bit, but we clipped the newspaper article and filed it away.

Then, the summer of 1992 everything changed. My wife called me at home from the local hospital where she worked.

“What is Rocco’s date of birth?” she asked. I looked it up and gave it to her.

“Well your Uncle Rocco is in the hospital. He was brought in last night by ambulance. He’s had a serious heart attack.”

“My Uncle Rocco.” That simple phrase had a sobering effect upon me. Now the butt of insensitive family jokes had a face, and a physical presence in the Intensive Care Unit a few miles from our home. A man I had never met needed help. “My Uncle Rocco.” He was an indigent patient and his hospital stay would be as brief as the doctors could justify. He’d be moved to a public aid nursing facility as soon as possible. We knew too well that would be a grim scenario.

Suddenly Rocco was indeed family. My wife visited a friend in the Social Services Department of the hospital.

“Is there any decent nursing home that could provide our Uncle Rocco with a public aid bed?” she asked.

As a matter of fact there was and within a week Uncle Rocco was resting most comfortably in an upscale nursing home on Chicago’s northwest side. They provided not only for his physical care but also the institutional structure that gave him comfort and security. Uncle Rocco was in heaven.

Perhaps not so strangely, he appeared at ease with the fact that I was a cop. But whenever anyone from our family visited him, he would find a way to express his opinion of our fractured family name.

“Padar, PADAR,” shaking his head with displeasure. Then he would hold his thumb against his fingers, palm up, and shake his raised hand , “Padovani, PADOVANI!” he would exclaim with a broad smile. He made no effort to conceal that he thought what had happened to our family name was a travesty. He was right.

Uncle Rocco passed away in December of ’94 at the age of 78.

Rest in peace, Rocco Padovani!

Fast forward some fifteen years… I am a Sergeant now, working in the department’s Video Services Section. We find ourselves summoned to the mayor’s office to videotape a personal message to a charitable organization. To say we were nervous would be a supreme understatement. None of us had ever met the Mayor.  As we readied our equipment I reviewed everything that could go wrong. It was a long list. We tried to at least plan for every eventuality.

The hour arrived and we found ourselves waiting in the outer office with a sense of foreboding. This experience could easily turn into a disaster given the combination of high tech equipment and what we perceived as an impatient mayor with no tolerance for mistakes. Without fanfare the door to the inner office suddenly opened and we were ushered in with our flatbed truck full of lighting and video equipment. I scanned the unfamiliar surroundings… The mayor was sitting behind a large desk befitting the office. At the far left a young man was sitting on a straight chair leaning precariously against the wall. His tie was loose and his shirtsleeves rolled up. He looked at me and literally leapt from his chair.

“Jim, Jim Padar!” he yelled. Sensing my confusion he held out his hand. “I’m Chief of Staff here now. What are you doing here Jim?”

My mind raced as I shook his hand and explained my present assignment. I recognized from the media that he was one of the mayor’s top aides. But how on earth did he know me? I had no recollection of how I might know him. He turned almost immediately to a slightly startled mayor.

“Mayor, I want to introduce you to one of Chicago’s finest officers. Sergeant Jim Padar, a real gentleman. I met Jim at Maxwell Street Homicide when I was a City News reporter. He’s a really good man!” He was positively effusive.

The mayor greeted me cordially and I introduced the rest of my team. For our crew it was the beginning of a warm relationship with the city’s chief executive officer.

Later as we packed up for the day I chuckled to my self. Somehow, some way deep inside, the Mayor’s Chief of Staff knew that years ago I was not the one who put a condom in his coffee.

Chicago’s West Side, 1975. The radio call was a man stabbed.

Mike and I trotted in between the buildings of the Henry Horner Homes, but we instinctively slowed approaching the play lot. There was a crowd as one would expect on this warm summer evening especially at the scene of a stabbing—but the people were strangely quiet—there was clearly something else going on here. Just a few months earlier a Chicago Police Officer had been shot and killed by a sniper from these buildings. It was not a nice place to be and tonight we were the first officers on the scene.

We slowed and unsnapped our holsters, keeping our hands on our snub nose revolvers as we continued more cautiously toward the group. Our uniform was “summer homicide,” short sleeve dress shirts, ties and slacks. Our sport coats hung on the rear seat hooks in our unmarked sedan now parked at the curb on the south edge of the housing project. Our lifeline, our radio, was firmly affixed to the dashboard of the car; the Detective Division would be the last in the department to be upgraded to the new handheld personal radios.

As we got closer, the crowd took note and created a path for us. In the center of the group lay a muscular teen-ager, staring wide eyed at the sky. No one was within 20 feet of him and we stopped in our tracks when we saw why. The shirtless young black male had been stabbed in the neck—the right carotid artery to be exact—and with each contraction of his heart a stream of blood shot 10 to 15 feet from his body. He writhed about from time to time and the direction of the blood would shift slightly with each movement. The crowd would murmur and shift even further away. We snapped our holster straps closed.

“Oh shit!” Mike and I exclaimed simultaneously. No matter how many first aid movies you may have seen, nothing can prepare you for this sight in real life.

“I’ll get a compress,” said Mike as he headed back to the car.

“And call for an ambulance!” I yelled after him as I approached the young man.

In our police careers both Mike and I had witnessed people bleed out from massive head wounds or other horrendous trauma that simply could not be staunched with the 4″ gauze compresses we carried in our case. But this was different. The point of bleeding was immediately identifiable. If I could just get my fingers on that point and apply pressure until Mike retuned, he might have a chance. I wasn’t quite sure how we would apply a compress with enough pressure and avoid strangling the young man at the same time, but that was not the present problem.

Somehow I got close enough to his body without getting a direct hit. I knelt next to him and placed the fingers of my right hand directly on the wound. I could feel the carotid pulsing but miraculously the bleeding stopped. With that accomplished I had time to contemplate our next move, but I didn’t have the faintest idea what that would be. I looked at his face, still wide eyed but conscious. Primal fear was the only way to describe his expression. The crowd stared silently. In the background I could hear the wail of responding sirens. What seemed like several minutes was in reality probably only seconds.

Mike, 12^th District uniform personnel and two paramedics burst through the crowd at the same time… and they stopped in their tracks.

“Oh shit,” said the paramedics as they looked at streams of blood spatter that had streaked across the concrete.

“No shit,” I muttered to myself.

They showed a light on the man’s neck and my hand.

“Don’t move your hand!” they said as they opened their case of magic.

“Flatten your palm against his neck, but don’t move your fingers. Pressure! Maintain pressure!”

Okay I’m doing that I thought to myself.

Imagine my surprise when their magic appeared to be yards and yards of Ace bandages wrapped around my hand and the victim’s neck.

“And your plan is?” I asked

“You’re coming with us,” they said. “And don’t move your fingers!”

One of the paramedics retreated to the ambulance and returned with the stretcher. It wasn’t easy but somehow they maneuvered the patient, now totally unconscious, onto the stretcher, raised it to about waist high and all of us began to glide slowly toward the street. Once at the ambulance it was apparent that I was on the wrong side for conventional transport.

“You’ll have to kneel next to him.”

I looked at the corrugated steel floor. “Not without a pillow.”

“Give the pussy a pillow,” said one of the paramedics with a glint in his eye.

“Don’t fuck with me or I’ll move my fingers.”

“Okay, okay!”

Once inside the ambulance it was all business. The one paramedic started oxygen and was attempting to start an IV line while the other was radioing vital signs to the hospital. It was the first time I recall hearing the term “hypovolemic shock” amongst other medical terms and the hospital responded in a terse exchange with the paramedic on the radio.

The silent crowd had come alive and surrounded our vehicle and began pounding on the sides.

“What choo doin?”

“Ain’t you goin a take em?”

“Go! Go! Go!” They began to chant, all the while pounding on the sides of the ambulance.

The paramedic was still struggling with the IV.

A blue and white checkered hat appeared at the sliding window on the rear door.

“Hey guys, ya gotta move. There’s too many of them here.”

“Godammit!” cursed the paramedic on the radio.

“Stand-by, we have to move!” he shouted into the radio.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and we sped a few blocks to a parking lot on the far side of the Chicago Stadium.

“If we don’t get an IV started we’re going to lose him.” he said as he climbed back with us.

“Negative on the IV” ordered the hospital. “Transport stat!”

“Give me five more seconds,” said the paramedic next to me.

And then miraculously, “Got it!”

“Let’s move!”

I had never ridden in anything other than an old fashioned Cadillac ambulance and was astounded to observe that the newer ambulances were built on a truck chassis. Every block of our ride reminded me of that fact.

At the back door of County we once again had to gyrate and contort to get the two of us out of the ambulance, my right hand and his neck remaining securely fastened together. That accomplished we snaked our way through the corridor of the Emergency Room—which strangely was not our destination. We rolled out into the hallway where an elevator took us to the second floor Trauma Unit known simply as Ward 32. I had been there dozens of times investigating various shooting and stabbings. The Cook County Trauma Unit was probably one of the most competent in the world, but this visit would be quite different for me.

If I thought the patient and I were to be immediately released from one another I was mistaken. The paramedics described the incredulous scene to the doctors and they turned to me questioningly.

“That’s right,” I said, “He was pumping 10 to 15 foot streams.”

“And that’s where your fingers are now?”

I nodded.

“Don’t move your hand.”

And they started to work their medical magic. The victim was smoothly transferred from the fire department stretcher to the trauma unit gurney. His blood pressure was perilously low, called out with a single number rather than the pair of figures we are used to hearing. “Sixty!” And a few moments later, “Fifty-five!” Pulse was rapid. There were no breath sounds in his right lung. A urinary catheter was inserted—that always caused me to shudder no matter how many times I had seen the procedure. They couldn’t start their own IV and the one started in the parking lot of the Chicago Stadium was now being used to push a unit of blood while they started a cutdown in his groin to provide for a more rapid infusion of blood.

At any given moment there were four or more persons working on him, the medical terms being thrown about by doctors and nurses alike sounded like foreign language to me. I understood enough to know that they suspected that internal bleeding may have drained into his plural cavity causing the right lung to collapse. They called for a chest tube to be inserted immediately next to where my right elbow was positioned. I shifted away a few inches, but I couldn’t move any further. The incision and insertion without anesthetic resulted in a low moan and some movement on the patient’s part and I took that as an encouraging sign. But when the tube was finally inserted bright red blood flowed out, confirming internal bleeding.

“Clamp it! Clamp it!” someone shouted. “We need to get more blood into him.”

Every step was a balancing act but slowly I began to get the general impression that the plan was to prepare him for transport to the operating room. A vascular surgery team had been assembled and was in place. How far would I go, I wondered silently.

Suddenly they were concentrating on the ace bandages around my hand and his neck.

“Don’t move your hand until we tell you!” Maintain pressure!”

They started to unwrap several feet of blood soaked elastic bandages.

“Okay… when we tell you… remove your hand and step away.”

I checked the path behind me and nodded my head.

“Now!” shouted the doctor.

I pulled my hand away and stepped into the pathway behind me without looking back at the patient. We had been joined together for well over an hour. As I flexed my hand and elbow, he and his gurney were disappearing out the door on the way to the OR. I found a wash station at the back of the Trauma Unit and scrubbed with a Hexachlorophene impregnated sponge for several minutes. While I was drying, Mike appeared at my side.

“Where’s that 4″ compress I sent you for?” I said with mock indignation.

“Go fuck yourself,” he responded. “Can we leave now, doctor?”

We laughed and the medical people still in the trauma unit shot us a look.

I had blood on my shirt and I was sure there had to be some on my trousers. We only had about 90 minutes left on our shift.

“Let’s go in to the office. I’m going to ask to be excused so I can go home and cleanup. Do we have any idea who this guy is?”

“I know who he is,” said Mike facetiously. “Wiggins. Larry Wiggins. He’s 19 and he lives in the Henry Horner Homes.”

“Well I’m glad you were doing something useful while I was… tied up.” We both laughed again.

Back at our Maxwell Street office, Mike started typing a Serafini Report, an unofficial note detailing what we knew, in the event Wiggins expired before we returned to work the next afternoon.

I headed home to shower and throw in a load of laundry.

•  •  •

For the next two days we immediately checked on Larry Wiggins’ condition when we arrived for work. The first day post-op they carried him as “critical.” The second day he got a half notch upgrade to “critical but stable,” a meager improvement.

We attempted some interviews at the Henry Horner Homes but the attitude toward the police was several steps beyond hostile. The offender was nick-named “Pookie” and we got a general physical description, but nobody would identify him beyond that. We enlisted the help of a robbery detective from our adjoining office. He was an encyclopedia of ghetto nicknames. Problem was, he told us, there were about a dozen Pookies on the west side. But with Larry Wiggins very slowly improving, he began to drop lower on our priority list. Homicide was the game and our Maxwell Street unit had earned the nickname “The Murder Factory” the hard way. Wiggins was alive and improving—time enough to interview him in person in a week or so.

The third day when we arrived for work, there was no need to call the hospital. The sergeant handed us a report from our morgue man reclassifying the Wiggins Aggravated Battery to Homicide/Murder. Larry Wiggins had expired suddenly during the early morning hours. The autopsy listed his cause of death as “Cerebral Thrombosis secondary to Traumatic Laceration of the Right Carotid Artery (Stab Wound). In short, Larry had suffered a stroke from a blood clot that had probably originated from the site of the knife wound. That put Larry back at the top of our priority list for the evening.

After roll call we trekked over to the Henry Horner Homes once again, but this time we went directly to the apartment where Larry had lived with his mother and sisters. As we entered, the mood was quiet and somber. A girl I would later learn was Larry’s younger sister turned to her mother.

“Mama, this is the detective I told you about,” as she nodded toward me.

“Oh sweet Jesus!” she shouted as she took about three steps and put me in a bear hug. “You saved my baby! You saved my baby!” She sobbed as she held tight to me.

Didn’t she know? Hadn’t they told her? Her son had been dead now for well over 12 hours. I held her tight, not knowing what her reaction was going to be, but she had to know the truth.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” I put my mouth close to her ear. “Larry passed away early this morning.”

She released me and put her hands on each of my arms just above the elbow.

“Don’t you understand?” she said. “You gave him a chance, oh Lord, you gave him a chance!”

I stared dumbly at her as she regained her composure.

“Jesus put you there so we would could see him and tell him we loved him… and say good-bye. You did that for us.”

“Yes ma’am,” was all I could say.

“We’re looking for Pookie,” I added lamely after a short pause.

She stood straighter and stronger, taking on the persona of the tough, resilient black matriarchs that I had seen so often in the ghetto.

“We know Pookie,” she said. “We’ll bring him in to you.”

“Mrs. Wiggins, that’s our job. We don’t want anything happening to you… or to Pookie.”

She smiled, indulgently I thought.

“His mama and I—we bring him in to you—ain’t nothin’ goin to happen to him. We be doin’ the right thing.” Her tone left no room for argument.

Two hours later an entourage arrived at the Maxwell Street Homicide office with Pookie in tow. He was a big young man, but with his mama at his side he looked meek and bedraggled. They stayed at the office while we took statements from Pookie and several witnesses. The Assistant State’s Attorney from the Felony Review Unit arrived, reviewed the case and approved murder charges.

It was well after midnight when we called for Pookie to be transported to the lock-up. The two mamas, Larry’s sisters and two witnesses left together. Everybody’s lives had changed the past few days, but the mamas walked out arm in arm, solid and straight. In a very real sense, they had each lost a son to ghetto violence, but no pair of mothers ever appeared more resolute in adversity.

Thanks to everyone who read the blog and spread the word in 2011. The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog that I thought might interest some of you. Best wished to all for a healthy and prosperous 2012.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 34,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 13 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Christmas morning in Chicago never really dawned. The dark orangey skies reflecting the sodium vapor lights remained a dark gray when the timers finally killed the street lamps. The thick clouds allowed the temperature to sneak above freezing for the first time in two weeks and the heavy snow cover actually started steaming a bit adding to the overall dullness of the day. By 10 AM the dawn finally gave up and the day settled into the dreariness of a dark, cloudy winter day.

The marked twelfth District squad and the unmarked detective car pulled to the curb in front of the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. The century old building appeared to loom ominously in the background. There was no call that brought them here this morning, rather Christmas Mass to be held in the small second floor chapel, officiated by the Police Chaplain.

The four men gingerly exited their vehicles and cursed silently as they attempted to navigate the high piles of soot black snow that lined the streets. The homicide detectives and uniform patrolmen nodded to one another in a silent, grim greeting of sorts. The detective in the black trench coat cursed aloud when he slipped and fell against the salt laden squad, leaving a white swath of salt on the side of his coat.  The detective in the rumpled Colombo trench coat laughed and in a distinctive, slow, hoarse voice said, “See, you gotta have a tan coat da’ the winter.”

“Yeah, aren’t you the Beau Brummel of the police world,” his partner replied.

They climbed the stairs to the room where the ambiance was a bit warmer. The place of worship seated forty without breaking out folding chairs. It was a simple chapel, with small stained glass windows at the front and rear. There were no Christmas decorations but the edge of the altar bore a blue and white checkered band matching that of the police hats. The ceiling held a battery of black box Fresnel stage lights, barn doors and scrims, belying the fact that one of the chapel’s primary uses was for videotaping the Mass for shut-ins. However, on the second and fourth Sunday of each month and each Christmas and Easter the Chicago Police Chaplain held the “Police Mass.”

The priest, in street clothes, moved easily among the gathering group, exchanging greetings and an occasional emotional hug. Retirees, spouses, and off-duty police with pistols at their waist mingled and exchanged Christmas greetings. This morning there were a bit more on-duty officers than normal; the district officers in full street uniform, tactical officers in jeans with their black safety vests festooned with star, name tag, radio and extra magazines of ammunition and of course the two detectives who sat at the very rear of the chapel. For many of the on-duty officers it would be their only chance to attend a religious service for Christmas.

The priest disappeared into a make-shift sanctuary at the front of the chapel and emerged moments later in his robes. He stood in front of the altar.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

The congregation was busy chattering amongst one another.

“Good morning,” said the priest a bit louder than before. No reaction.

“Role call!” shouted the priest, in his best Watch Commander voice. The group laughed and took their seats. As they did so, the Chaplain beamed. These were his people… this was his flock. He had married them, baptized their children, ridden the streets with them, and prayed with them in emergency rooms across the city as one of them lay wounded or dying. His chest almost visibly puffed with pride as he surveyed the room.

“Let’s take a moment to quiet our souls before we proceed.”

The two uniform officers keyed their radio briefly.

“Twelve-twelve, hold us down for lunch at the Mercy Home.”

“Ten four twelve-twelve, you’re down for lunch.” That would give them some thirty minutes without a radio assignment. The tactical officers and the detectives were on a bit looser leash, generally not subject to assignments from the dispatcher but they kept their radios on and on low volume.

“Before we dare go on, let us call to mind our sins and ask forgiveness,” said the priest.

The chapel was totally quiet until the radios broke the silence.

“Twelve-sixteen, cars in twelve and cars on city-wide, we have a man with a gun at 2323 West Lexington, no further information.” That was about a mile and a half from the tiny chapel.

From the very back of the chapel came the unmistakably growly drawl of the detective.

“Guess what he got for Christmas?”

The Mass continued and almost as if on cue, at the next momentary silence the radios in the room burst to life again.

“Attention cars in twelve and on city-wide, we now have shots fired on Lexington.”

“They must be opening the rest of the presents.” Same voice… from the rear of the chapel.

The tactical officers got up quietly and exited the side door, the rapid pace of their boots echoed on the stairway.

“Attention cars in twelve and on city-wide, one more time, we now have a man shot at that Lexington address, that’s 2323 West Lexington.”

The uniformed officers exited the south chapel door, the detectives exited the opposite side door.

“Twelve-twelve, cancel that lunch, we’ll take in Lexington”

From the opposite hallway, “Yeah dispatch, this is homicide 7403, tell our office we’re heading for that Lexington scene.”

The priest paused for a long moment. Less than five minutes into the service, the radios, along with their officers, had left the building, the sirens now fading into the distance.

The Chaplain resumed, “Let’s take a moment and pray for our people on the street this Christmas morning…”

I love computers. My first, in 1980, was  a Sinclair Z80, an invention by a guy named Clive Sinclair. By today’s standards, “primitive” would be a gross understatement. In 1982 came the Radio Shack TRS80 Model II, the Model I having been something less than a success. From that point forward things just became crazy and keeping up with technology separated many from their hard earned money. These were “command line” machines with nothing more on the screen than the “C-prompt” and a blinking cursor.

C:\ _

Learning the DOS commands was like learning another language, but the satisfaction was immense as we coaxed these mysterious boxes into doing our bidding. In the late 1980′s Windows began to gain some acceptance and slowly the terms “click,” “drag,” and “drop” became commonplace. People no longer learned the language of the command line. It’s there, buried in the sub menus of your flashy color Windows screen. Those of us who know where it is can still mystify our friends, but today it is generally only used for advanced configuration problems or in cases of dire emergency.

On occasion when family or friends buy a new computer, they will call me and ask if I can help them set it up.

“Only if I can open the boxes.” is my reply. They are quizzical, but they comply.

Once at their home or office, we open the boxes and carefully free the units from their cardboard and styrofoam constraints. There is nothing like the smell of freshly unwrapped electronics!

Together we place them in a classical layout, tower, monitor, mouse, keyboard—each is appropriately connected via its corresponding cable and after a careful check and double check we turn the power on. The hard drive clicks and whirs and in a moment the monitor bursts forth with the welcome screen.

Configuration and software installation is next and this is what makes the machine your own personal tool. When it’s done and you open your browser, voila, you are connected to far flung places.

They thank me and I say, “No, thank you. Letting me help you set up your computer is like your best friend asking you over to help you set up his new electric train.” The look on their face tells me they don’t understand… they just don’t understand.

•  •  •

I was seven when World War II came to an end. One of the things that had disappeared from the toy scene during the war years was electric trains, but I was too young to even know that such a marvel had existed. It was Christmas 1946 and Lionel had just resumed production of their classic electric train sets but they were scarce. My uncle however, was store manager for a Woolworths and he sequestered two; one for his son and one for me. What a Christmas that was!

On Christmas Day my cousin and I peeled back the lid on my carton.

We opened the individual boxes inside, and carefully freed the units from their cardboard and corrugated wrapping. You could smell the fresh enamel on the engine and freight cars. There is no similar smell today—it must have been the lead based paint.

Together we placed the pieces in the classical layout, transformer, simple oval track, steam engine, coal car and sundry freight cars. Two wires are run from the transformer to the special connector on the three rail track. The engine, coal car and freight cars are carefully set on the track and coupled together. The exact order of the freight cars and the shape of the oval is what made your train your own personal layout.

Then, after a careful check and double check, a cautious turn of the transformer control started the train rolling and voila!

You pucker your lips slightly, “Woooo… woo,” and your imagination transports you to far flung places.

In following years as electric trains became more plentiful, it became established custom: you only invited your very best friend to help you unpack your new Lionel or American Flyer train set.

•  •  •

“Electric trains. Lionel!” I repeat in exasperation as we pack up the empty computer cartons

“Lionelle? You mean lioness.”

“Forget it.” I say politely. They will never understand the connection. Pity.

• Introduction: As I contemplated writing this I realized it would be a story without an ending. I hate stories like that… I was never good at filling in the blanks. But in this case there was no choice. It’s a true story and as is my custom, I mentally reviewed any details that might need a bit of research to keep things as accurate as the frailties of the human mind will allow. During those activities, it came to pass that the end of story was written before the actual story, possibly in testimony to powers that we do not fully understand.  However, as with any tale, it’s best to read it here from beginning to end.

It started when I was a youngster and it was more than 60 years before it resolved.

Our family lived on Chicago’s west side and the Lake Street Rapid Transit was the preferred transportation downtown. At first it just caught the corner of my eye for some unknown reason. A dirty, dusty nondescript building on the north side of Lake Street next to the elevated structure. The Declan Mould Company. It was not unlike many other buildings along the route of this rusting framework loosely referred to as “the el.” I didn’t make a point of it, but when I was at a window seat on the correct side of the train, my eye would be drawn to it as if by some silent force. It was decidedly unpleasant, but I didn’t know why. It continued each time I had occasion to ride past… if anything the attraction intensified and the sense of foreboding deepened over the years.

Even in the 1940’s the building was old. It was a bleak, utilitarian structure bereft of any styling save perhaps for a rotting wooden sign edged with rounded trim that proclaimed “Declan Mould Company” in dark gray on gray. In later years the sign would be replaced with one that Americanized the company name; “Declan Mold Company.” As near as I could establish, they manufactured heavy cardboard type forms for casting concrete. Why would a 10 year old be drawn to such a place?

Then in my college years, I took a part time job with what was now called the Chicago Transit Authority. I found myself on the el almost daily, many times on the Lake Street route. I changed my seating habit now and purposely positioned myself on the side of the car that would afford me a glimpse of the Declan Mould Company. Each time I passed I would experience a visceral gnawing, deep in my inner self, inexplicable and of unknown origins. Why did I seek out the window seat with the best view? Why does the moth seek out the flame and flirt with it until the slightest shift in breeze results in its fiery demise?

The entire building had a grayish pall. Concrete dust I assumed. On the west side was a parking lot with a few randomly parked trucks. Although I could not see it from the train, I knew there was a loading dock. Incandescent bulbs coated with thick gray dust dot the ceiling of the dock, adding to the ghostly ambiance, making the scene macabre and surreal. There were colorless metal doors that led to a warehouse and offices. How could I envision a place that I had never been?

Then suddenly my world changed.  I graduated college and took a job in New York City and the Declan Mould Company faded from memory. From a thousand, miles away that worrisome place could do me no harm and thoughts of it no longer disturbed my sense of well-being.

Years passed and in a career quirk of fate I found myself at the Chicago Police Academy as a recruit. Near the end of our classroom exercises we were assigned to training districts for one week, prior to our actual graduation. My assignment was the Fillmore District. The Declan Mold Company, now sporting the new sign, was in the Fillmore District. A chill went down my spine at that gruesome thought but I could not explain it with any sense of reason. There was no verbal explanation. Even now, as I write, words fail me as I contemplate the anxious, frightening countenance visited upon me each time I passed the building. Discussing it with anyone was out of the question. Where would I start? What words would I use?

Field training week is filled with unspeakable stress and tension for all police recruits, but each time my Field Training Officer cruised by the Declan Mold Company I shuddered. It was the first time I had seen it from street level and the site filled me with dread. I knew that this was the week that I would die and I knew exactly where it would happen. When I was allowed to drive, I avoided Lake Street at all costs. My training officer didn’t seem to notice.

Training week ended and I reported back to the academy in one piece. Had I cheated fate? Or was this just not the time?

At the conclusion of recruit training I was assigned to the East Chicago Avenue District. Rush Street, Old Town and the Cabrini Housing Projects. I would work the Martin Luther King Riots and the ’68 Democratic National Convention there, about as close to outright urban warfare as any police officer could experience. But it was all miles from the Declan Mold Company. It was highly unlikely that my duties would ever take me there. Once again, the thoughts faded.

Then a promotion… Area Four Homicide. Area 4 included the Fillmore District. The Declan Mold Company roller coaster of emotions started its long climb again. I needed a defense mechanism. Up to this point in life I hadn’t much pondered the concept of destiny or fate. If there was such a thing, I decided, it could not be altered by mere mortals. What would be, would be. I had no choice but to accept my destiny and try to push it from my mind.

Eleven years passed on the street in Area Four. On rare occasion I would drive by the building, but the acceptance mode lessened the tension. Whatever, I would just have to live with it, or more likely, die with it. In some strange way, I was okay with that.

A couple of promotions found me safely ensconced in an administrative office setting. Had I cheated destiny? Maybe not. As I approached the final month of employment prior to retirement, I was suddenly transferred back to street duties in the Austin District. The Austin District boundary was just two blocks from the Declan Mold Company.

Unaware of my intent to retire, my new commander allowed me to reschedule some vacation time before reporting for duty. By combining that with some shifts in my day off schedule, I was left with the two final days of my police career to work the streets in Austin.

So this is how it would end.

I could envision the human interest obituary; “Career officer killed one day before retirement.” I felt saddened, but strangely not frightened. Acceptance of one’s fate can be a powerful coping mechanism.

My final retirement papers reached the Commanders’ desk. He called me at home sounding more than a bit irritated.

“Hell, you only have two days left… and you probably don’t remember shit about working district patrol. Why don’t you just take comp time and come in and pick up your papers on your last day?”

Not being one to challenge authority, I did as I was told. My final day of work I retrieved my signed retirement papers from the district and drove downtown to headquarters, prudently avoiding Lake Street and the Declan Mold Company. I walked away from the police department alive and intact.

Still, as the years passed, the Declan Mold Company lurked in the lurid shadows of my mind. The issue, whatever it was, had not been settled. To finish this story, I needed to see that building one more time. What was this compelling, recurring  moth/flame thing? Would my trip there be a final act of foolishness? My own fiery demise as the flame finally consumes the moth?

* * *

I drive northbound on Cicero and turn east under the elevated structure. What will I do when I get there? Should I once and for all leave my car and walk onto that ghostly loading dock that exists so clearly in some dark recess of my brain? I am certain that that would provide resolution, but at what cost? I approach slowly… again the moth to the flame. I pull to the curb across from the address. The building is gone! …replaced by a clean modern structure, housing a parts warehouse of some sort. I am confused for a moment. This place was my irrefutable and tragic destiny, but it is gone. I stare almost in disbelief. Slowly the realization begins to sink in… this place… this ominous place of suffering and death was not my destiny… it was my history.

Who was I?

What happened to me there?

It was near the end of my first year in New York City, Columbus Day to be exact. I was working as an electrical engineer for TelePrompTer Corporation. It had been a difficult year for me. I was homesick for Chicago and there were very few other people my age at the company. To make things worse, my college friend, New York roommate and office partner had been transferred to our facility in southern New Jersey. With him gone, I was officially on my own.

Harvey stuck his head into my office. He was about my age, a native Brooklynite of Jewish heritage. I knew him just well enough to know that he was the epitome of a Jewish kid from Brooklyn in every favorable connotation that can be associated with that background. He had an unbounded enthusiasm for life, a gregarious personality and he spoke perfect Brooklynese.

“Hey! Da pres-den’s drivin’ by a block from heya. Les take a oily lunch an’ git a look at ‘em.”

I smiled inside every time I heard him speak.

“Yeah, let’s go!” I told him. It would be a change of pace, something different, maybe even something to write home about.

It was a hot day and the small crowd that had gathered to watch President Kennedy was on the far side of street, in the shade. Harvey and I stood on the sunny side of the street for a moment, contemplating what to do. Suddenly the motorcade approached slowly from the right and there he was: The President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, sitting high on the back seat of a convertible, waving to the crowd… on the shady side of the street.

Harvey perceived that we were being ignored and suddenly his spontaneous Brooklyn nature kicked in. He stretched his six foot frame to about six-four, standing on the very tips of his toes. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hey JACKeee-bay-BEEE!” he shouted at the top of his voice in perfect Brooklynese.

I wanted to die. I wanted to slither, but there was no place to slither to.

But in an instant the President of the United States turned, laughed aloud and waved at the two of us with a broad grin.

“Yeah!” exclaimed Harvey.

We walked back to the office, Harvey chattering all the way, as if we were returning from a State Dinner. A quiet, conservative engineer from the Midwest and an impetuous kid from Brooklyn; we made a very unlikely pair and so we became good friends.