by Bill Bernico
“How’d you know?” I said.
“Maybe it was his wife,” Ben said. “And maybe they were running for a bus, but an innocent man doesn’t run the other way when he sees two uniformed officers. I just knew he was hiding something.”
We booked Snider in and placed him in a holding cell pending bail. Ben finished the paperwork and we were back on the street in an hour, cruising the rest of Twenty-Sixth Street. When we got to South Central Park Avenue, Ben turned south toward Thirty-First Street. There was nothing special happening along the way and when he got to Thirtieth Street, Ben turned east, back toward Kedzie Avenue.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“Down to Sawyer,” Ben said. “I want to drive past McCormick Elementary School. It’s up on Twenty-Seventh.”
“I know,” I said. “I went to school there myself. Why did you want to ride past there?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Just to break the routine of heading up Kedzie again. Why, you in a hurry to get someplace?”
“No,” I said. “Go ahead.”
When we got to Twenty-Seventh Street Ben circled the block, looking at the school from all four angles. “Okay,” he said. “Now we can get back on the main streets. That’s all I wanted to see.”
Ben drove back to Kedzie Avenue on Twenty-Seventh Street. On the northeast corner sat a filling station. Traffic was clear on Kedzie and Ben could have easily driven onto it, but he just stayed where he was, watching the filling station.
“Reminiscing again?” I said.
Ben held up one hand and said, “Shhh. Wait a minute. I thought I saw something strange.”
I looked toward the filling station and saw a maroon sedan sitting alongside the station, its engine running and a man sitting on the passenger’s side. Through the plate glass window I could make out the figure of a man rifling the cash drawer. A moment later he hurried out of the station, got into the maroon sedan and sped away, south on Kedzie. Ben hit the lights and siren and followed after him. The maroon sedan sped through the next two red lights with Ben hot on his tail.
The sedan took the corner at Archer on two wheels and followed it to Pulaski Road and then continued south at more than seventy miles per hour. Ben managed to stay with him. “Hang on, kid,” he said to me as he closed the gap between the two cars. I hung on and by the time we’d passed Seventy-Ninth Street, two more patrol cars had joined in the chase, cutting the maroon sedan off at Eighty-Fifth Street.
The maroon sedan tried to turn west on Eighty-Fifth, but couldn’t handle the turn at that speed and on icy surfaces and crashed into a telephone pole. The sudden stop ejected the driver out through the windshield as his body wrapped itself around the pole, almost tearing him in half. The passenger’s body became wedged between the seat and the dashboard, which was now just inches from the seatback. His face was mashed up against the windshield, which for some reason hadn’t broken on that side of the car.
Ben skidded to a stop and the two of us got out and hurried over to the sedan. The driver’s face was all but gone, smeared against the telephone pole. There was no need to check for a pulse. I looked into the passenger side window and could see that the passenger was also dead. If he wasn’t, he’d found a way to get twisted into a pretzel and cheat death.
Friday, December 11, 1936 - Chicago, IL
I was determined not to spend another awful winter in Chicago. My bones nearly froze solid last year in another of Chicago’s blizzards. Trying to maneuver Chicago’s snowy streets seemed to get worse every year and the piles of plowed snow just hindered our efforts to reach people in need on a timely basis. Snow alone wouldn’t have swayed my decision to leave. I guess it was a combination of that and the sergeant that I had to work under at the time. His name was Nicholas Burns and he was an old school, first-class prick. There’s really no other word that fits as well.
Last October I’d finished three months of hard work on a murder case. Ben and I had apprehended the suspect just minutes after he’d killed his victim, a young woman from Des Plaines. We brought him in and booked him and sat him at the table in the interrogation room. Sergeant Burns watched as Ben and I questioned Jake Templeman for half an hour. Burns got impatient and took over the interrogation. Ben and I had been ordered to leave the room. Sergeant Burns emerged fifteen minutes later with a full confession. We didn’t have one-way glass for looking in on the interrogation, but Ben and I could hear some of what was going on in there behind closed doors.
Burns was a hard ass who thought that modern police methods were too soft on the criminals and he usually employed pressure tactics and physical abuse to get what he wanted out of a suspect. He was always careful to hit suspects where it wouldn’t show. One of his favorite methods involved a thick Chicago phone book against the side of the head. It knocked the suspect senseless and made his ears rings for hours afterwards. And it left no visible marks. It was a blatant case of giving a suspect the third degree. From that day on the sergeant wore the nickname “Third Degree Burns,” a name I tagged him with and a name that stuck with him for years afterwards.
Jake Templeman may have had a low tolerance for pain and confessed the murder to Sergeant Burns. Three weeks later Templeman was taken to court to stand trial for the murder of twenty-six year old Deborah Rafkin. Two weeks into the trial Templeman’s lawyer put his client on the stand and it came out about how the police had obtained their confession. The judge declared the confession inadmissible and Templeman walked, a free man. Months of hard work by Ben and me had all been for nothing and Deborah Rafkin’s family never got justice. It was the last straw for me.
After my shift on Friday, December 11, I stopped at Sergeant Burns’ office and entered without bothering to knock. Burns looked up, obviously annoyed with me for not only entering without knocking, but he also had a serious attitude problem with me when it got back to him that I was the one who had given him the nickname “Third Degree Burns.” Tension between us had been high for a long time and today it came to a boil.
“Didn’t you ever learn how to knock, Cooper?” Burns said. “What do you want now?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just wanted to take one last opportunity to tell you what an asshole I think you are.”
Burns slapped his hands flat on top of his desk and stood. “Cooper, I didn’t like you before, but you’ve just crossed the line. Now you’re really gonna get it.”
“Sit down and shut up,” I said, tossing my badge on his desk and laying my holstered .38 next to it. “I guess it is true what they say about officers around here. This whole precinct is just like a giant cesspool. The biggest turds rise to the top. And I expect someday you’ll make captain. But you’re not going to be captain over me. I quit.”
“Quit, my ass,” Burns said. “You’re fired.”
“Too late, Third Degree,” I said, rubbing his nose in it. “I already quit, so you can take that badge and stick it where it’ll do the most good. If I ever cross paths with you again, it’ll be too soon.”
I left his office without giving him time for a rebuttal. I also left his office door standing wide open. Anyone in the hall or nearby offices could clearly hear his parting rants. I stopped by the squad room shortly before roll call. I caught Ben coming out of the locker room and pulled him aside.
“Ben,” I said. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”
Ben had known about my plans for a week or better and had kept it to himself. “I’m gonna miss you, Matt,” he said. “You’ve been one hell of a partner, I have to say.”
“Ben,” I said. “You’re the one thing about this whole place I’ll actually miss. You have a standing invitation to come and visit me in L.A. anytime you like. There’ll always be a place for you.”
“Thanks, Matt,” Ben said. “You take care of yourself out there. L.A.’s full of fruits and nuts so watch yourself.”
Roll call was just getting underway and Ben had to leave. I shook his hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Goodb
ye, Ben.”
My car was already packed with my worldly possessions. I’d sold my furniture, gotten my security deposit back for my apartment and was ready to hit the road by nine o’clock that Friday morning. As I passed the Chicago city limits it began to snow and I smiled to myself at the thought of spending the coming Christmas in sixty plus degree weather in shirtsleeves.
Wednesday, December 16, 1936 – Hollywood, CA
I’d spent the past five days on the road from Chicago to Los Angeles. I had no idea where I planned to settle. L.A. was a big place and all I knew about it up to this point was what I’d seen in the movies or saw on a California map that I’d picked up at a filling station in Chicago. Since one place seemed as good as another I decided to start by looking into living in Hollywood, the motion picture capital of the world. I liked the idea of possibly running into movie stars on the streets of Hollywood. I imagined that they walked around like any other citizen on the street.
As I pulled into the city limits I looked up in the hills above the city and saw the tall white letters that spelled out HOLLYWOODLAND. It made me smile to know that I was in the same town as Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. I still had no idea how I was going to earn a living or where I was going to live, but I knew that this was the town for me.
Friday, May 7, 1937 – Hollywood, CA
I’d been in town for five months, doing odd jobs and just scratching out a living as a handyman for hire. I was sitting in the restaurant that morning having breakfast as usual. The man next to me had finished his breakfast, laid the newspaper down and left the cafe. I picked up the paper and folded it back to the front page. There in bold type were two words. HINDENBURG DISASATER filled the top half of the paper along with a photo of the zeppelin as it had caught fire while docking at Lakehurst, New Jersey late last evening. I laid the paper down and shuddered where I sat.
I needed a break from all this stark reality. I was a huge movie fan and I was in the right town for it, so I decided to take a day off and catch a movie. Gary Cooper was starring in The Plainsman at The Pantages Theater. There was a Walt Disney full-length cartoon playing at the Hollywood Theater. I thought I was a little old for Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, so I opted for the new Spencer Tracy movie playing at Grauman’s Theater, Captains Courageous. It was an adaptation of a Rudyard Kipling story and featured Mickey Rooney, Lionel Barrymore and Freddy Bartholomew. How could I lose?
I managed to eke out a living for the next four years but the glamour of Hollywood had quickly faded. I was making enough money to get by on, but I felt that somehow there had to be more to life on the West Coast and I was determined to find it.
Monday, December 8, 1941 – Hollywood, CA
I didn’t sleep at all last night after having heard the news about the Japanese attacking Pearl Harbor that afternoon. From what I could hear of the radio reports, hundreds of servicemen had been killed and many of our ships had been sunk right there in the Hawaiian harbor. I knew what I had to do so right after breakfast that Monday morning, I headed downtown to the nearest recruiting station and signed up with the Army.
I filled out the necessary paperwork and stood in line with the other enrollees, waiting my turn to be called. Once they’d called my name, I walked into a room with an eye chart on the wall. I was able to read even the smallest line of letters. The examiner shook his head in disbelief and checked a box on my form. He sent me into the next room where a doctor in a white lab coat had me sit up on a table. He looked into my ears with some sort of conical instrument, jotted down his results on my form and proceeded to tap my kneecaps with a rubber mallet. The reflexes were just as he’d have expected.
During one of my last examinations, the doctor took a look at the bottoms of my feet, made a few notations on my form and sent me on my way. I ended up standing in front of a table in the last room. I stood behind another fellow who had already gone through all of his examinations. The doctor behind the desk looked over the forms and grabbed a large rubber stamp. He stamped the guy’s form with a large 1-A on the front and instructed the man to move on to the next station.
I stepped up to the table and handed the doctor my forms. The doctor behind the table evaluated the notes that all the other doctors had written on my forms. A minute later he grabbed another large rubber stamp and stamped a large 4-F on the front of my form.
He looked up at me after he’d stamped my form. “Sorry,” he said. “Flat feet. Next.” And that was all he ever said to me.
I left feeling like I’d let my country down. Maybe the doctor here had me confused with someone else. Maybe he measured wrong or wrote the wrong results on my form. I hurried over to the Marine recruiter and went through the entire procedure again. I came out the other end with another 4-F stamped on my form. I wondered just how important non-flat feet were to troops that walked and ran. Maybe the Navy wouldn’t be so particular. It was worth a try. An hour later I walked out of the Navy recruiter’s office with my third 4-F classification. It was no use. I was destined to sit this war out on the home front.
Monday, November 16, 1942 – Hollywood, CA
During my quest for meaningful employment in California, I’d tried my hand at handyman, automobile washer, gardener’s assistant, dog walker and I even spent two weeks on a road crew, filling in holes in the road with hot asphalt. None of these jobs appealed to me and had only served to fill my hours and pay my bills. I knew I could always go back to being a cop, but I resisted, trying not to subject myself to another round of frustration from commanding officers—at least not if I could help it.
I was driving down Yucca Avenue one afternoon, heading toward Highland Avenue. As soon as I made the turn south onto Highland, I looked in my rearview mirror and spotted a black and white patrol car on my tail. I looked down at my speedometer and noticed that I was within the speed limit. I drove through the intersection at Hollywood Boulevard and continued south. Just before I got to Sunset the red light on the patrol car came on, along with the siren. I pulled over to the curb and turned off my car. I reached into my back pocket and pulled my wallet out, ready to show my license to the officer. I knew from having been on the other end of this scenario that cooperation was the best way to go when a cop pulled you over. In my mirror I could see the cop emerging from his car and walking over to my car. I rolled the window down and held my wallet up for him to see.
“Good morning, sir,” the cop said. “Can I see you license and registration, please?”
My goodness, the cops were certainly polite here in California. It was a welcomed change from the Chicago cops’ attitudes. I held my wallet up for him to see.
He looked closely at it and then said, “Would you take the license out of the wallet, please?”
I complied and passed my license out the window to him.
“Do you know why I stopped you, sir?” the cop said.
“I know I wasn’t speeding,” I said. “And I didn’t run any red lights, so no, I’m not sure what law I’ve broken.”
“I stopped you,” the cop said, “because your left taillight is out. I can let you off with a warning, but you need to get that fixed right away.”
I smiled and exhaled. “I’ll take care of it right now,” I said. “I know there’s a service station not three blocks from here. I’ll take it there right away and get that bulb replaced. Thanks for letting me know.”
The cop handed me back my license and watched as I flipped it open and inserted my license back into the celluloid window. He seemed to take a particular interest in my wallet. “Are you a police officer, Mr. Cooper?” The cop said.
“No,” I said.
“Were you one at one time?” the cop said.
I nodded. “Back in Chicago. How’d you know?” I said.
“I noticed an oval indentation in your wallet and two pinholes in the leather,” he said. “About the only way you can get that is from a badge. I just figured you must have been a cop at one time.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You
’re trying for detective, right?”
The cop nodded. “And how did you guess?”
“It was your acute observation and attention to details that tipped me off,” I said. “If they ask me for a recommendation, you’re in.”
“Speaking of in,” the cop said. “We’re experiencing a shortage of police officers these days. You know, with the war and all. A lot of our guys are overseas and we’re a little short handed. You ever consider getting back into police work?”
“Actually,” I said, “I was trying to avoid it if possible.”
“Really,” the cop said. “Why’s that?”
“I had a bad experience with my sergeant back in Chicago,” I said. “I didn’t agree with his tactics for getting confessions out of suspects. He was kind of heavy handed.”
“Aside from that, did you like the work?” the cop said.
“Aside from that,” I said, “I got tired of galoshes and snow shovels and tire chains and blizzards.”
The cop laughed. “Well, we don’t have that problem here. I like to think that our officers behave in a manner befitting a policeman. Why don’t you give some thought to putting your application in down at the twelfth precinct? You can use my name for a reference if you like.”
“Really?” I said. “And what is your name, officer?”
“It’s Jerry,” the cop said. “Jerry Burns.”
I laughed out loud and then stifled myself.
“What’s so funny?” Jerry said.
“You won’t believe this,” I said. “Remember when I told you about my heavy handed sergeant? His name was Burns, Nick Burns. I mean, what are the odds? You’re not related, are you?”
“God, I hope not,” Jerry said. “Most of my relatives are from Colorado. And it’s a pretty common name so I doubt I’d have any relatives in Chicago.”
