The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop

by Steve Osborne

  We grabbed him by both elbows and yanked him up to his feet so I could toss him. I asked him if he had anything sharp on him or anything else that might hurt me. Sheepishly he shook his head no. He was homeless, jobless, and now under arrest. Life wasn’t going so good for him.

  I checked his waistband first, then started going through his pockets, careful not to get stuck by anything sharp—especially a hypodermic needle. Not to sound cruel, but most of these guys are in this situation for the same reason, they’re junkies.

  Tossing him took a few minutes because he had on two coats, a hooded sweatshirt, and three pairs of pants. Most of the stuff he had on him was crap, and he stunk like he hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. I kept searching, and cradled inside his coat pocket, carefully wrapped up in a wad of tissue paper, was a crack pipe and a cigarette lighter. No big surprise, he was a crackhead. I was happy I finally caught this guy, but my great collar didn’t seem so great anymore.

  I was peeling clothes off him like he was a giant onion, going through every pocket I could find. Finally I found what I was looking for. There was something heavy buried deep inside one of his many pants pockets, but it wasn’t the gun I was hoping to find. It was five packs of Duracell AA batteries. My robbery collar was quickly turning into a petit larceny.

  I looked at him and growled, “All this over some fucking batteries.” I wanted to strangle him. We both could have gotten killed over twenty dollars’ worth of batteries that he was probably going to sell for two. He hung his head and seemed slightly contrite but mostly unapologetic. He was just doing what crackheads do—they steal.

  We walked him up to the street and back to the store. There were several more police cars on the scene because the store owner had called 911 to report a “robbery in progress.” I explained to the sergeant that I saw the perp running from the store and chased him down into the subway and apprehended him.

  I left out the part about the tunnel and the train and how I almost got killed over a bullshit collar. In the past he had always liked my eagerness and thought I showed some promise. No sense ruining that.

  The victim positively identified the perp and his property and gave us a good statement as to what happened. It ended up being pretty simple, a ground-ball petit larceny and trespassing collar.

  On the ride back to the station house I swore to myself I would never do that again. I learned a big lesson that afternoon about being eager and never giving up. I realized that in police work having balls is a great thing, but having brains and common sense is what keeps you alive.

  3.

  Growing Pains

  A wise old cop once told me that police work takes a young, strong body but an experienced, mature mind. It was still early in my career and like most cops my age I had plenty of the first but was still working on the second.

  My fingers were fumbling as I tried to pin my shield and the one medal I had on my uniform shirt. Next I grabbed my gun belt, strapped it on, and shoved my gun in my holster. My pounding headache and nauseous stomach made getting dressed a little difficult. I slammed my locker shut and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time because I was late for roll call. As I sprinted up the steps my head was pounding like there was a woodpecker inside trying to get out and my stomach was doing flips. I had a little bit of a hangover. That’s why I was late.

  It was Sunday morning, and I was scheduled to work a day tour, but that didn’t keep me from going out the night before. I was single, twenty-five years old, and like a dog in heat I was out on the prowl. It was summertime, so a couple of buddies and I had headed down to Seaside Heights to try to pick up some drunk Jersey girls hanging out in the clubs.

  Having to work the next day meant little to me. I could party all night, catch a few winks on the sofa in the precinct lounge, then work all day. I could handle anything life, or the streets, could throw at me, because I was young, strong, and didn’t know any better.

  I finally made it to roll call a few minutes late, and slipped into the back row. For a second I thought I made it without the sergeant noticing, but a cocked eyebrow in my direction let me know I was bagged. I was normally a good worker and rarely gave the boss any trouble, so it wasn’t that big of a deal and he didn’t break my balls. Sunday day tours were the quietest, most laid-back tour of the week. Everybody was in a relaxed mood, expecting an easy day.

  My partner took one look at me, laughed, and grabbed the car keys. I was glad because I had just raced up the Garden State Parkway and was in no mood to do any more driving.

  Usually on Sundays we took the car to the car wash, but this time my stomach was up in my throat and my head was ready to explode, so I told my partner, “Fuck it. First I need some aspirins, then let’s go get some breakfast.”

  We hit a diner, got egg sandwiches and coffee, and then headed over to Washington Square Park to chill out. While my partner was watching the girls jog by in their tight shorts and giving me his usual play-by-play commentary, I was massaging my temples, popping aspirins, and trying to put something in my stomach.

  It was early in the day, but it was already eighty degrees outside and getting hotter by the minute. It was August, and the weatherman on the radio was describing it as hazy, hot, and humid. I was half tempted to take my vest off and throw it into the trunk, but instead I turned the air conditioner up full blast and pointed the vents right into my face. I reminded myself that staying up late last night was a stupid thing to do and taking my vest off would be another dumb decision.

  After a little while my stomach started to feel better, and the woodpecker finally escaped. I swore to myself I wouldn’t do this ever again, but in the back of my mind I knew I was full of shit. I would be out again next Saturday night doing the exact same stupidity.

  As we sat there having breakfast and watching the girls jog by, the dispatcher called our unit to give us a job. Neither one of us was in the mood to start working just yet, but we were rookies and you do what you’re told. Like most rookies we were both adrenaline junkies so we hoped that it was a “man with a gun” or maybe a “robbery in progress” and not some bullshit job.

  But instead of the “gun run” or the robbery, we got the worst possible job in all of police work, a report of a “foul odor.” The dispatcher gave us the address of a building over on Tenth Street and told us to see the super. We both looked at each other with that “Oh shit” look on our faces. This could mean only one thing, a DOA. I couldn’t believe it, a rotten, smelly, stinking DOA in the middle of summer—and I was still hungover.

  Chasing a guy with a gun or grabbing some perp that just did a stickup is a walk in the park compared to handling a ripe, stinking DOA. Just the thought of it had my stomach flipping again. I wrapped up my egg sandwich and put the lid back on my coffee, afraid anything I ate might be coming back up again in a little while.

  Cops deal with death on a regular basis, it’s a big part of the job, and it’s something you learn to get used to. But it takes a little time before you can look at a dead body and have the only thing on your mind be paperwork and notifications.

  Before becoming a cop, like most normal people my only experience with death was seeing some dead relative in a funeral home. They were always dressed up nice, with plenty of makeup to give their cheeks and lips that rosy color. The room was always filled with flowers, giving the air a pleasant, sweet smell.

  Police work is a little different. We get to see them right where they fall, usually lying in a pool of blood. There are no flowers to mask the smell, and there’s no pink or rosy cheeks, just a gray ashen face with half-opened eyes staring back at you. And it’s not unusual to be stepping over somebody’s brains or entrails lying on the sidewalk. Real death isn’t pretty, but the more you see the more you get used to it.

  My first homicide was a guy shot because he was fooling around with somebody else’s girlfriend. The victim hears the doorbell ring and when he answers it, pow, one through the chest. Small hole and very little blood. The round went right
through his heart and came out his back. He sort of looked like he came home drunk and passed out on the floor.

  The thing I remember most about it was his wife wailing and sobbing and rolling all over the floor in the other room. This went on for hours, the whole time we were there, and it wasn’t easy to listen to. I guess she hadn’t figured out why he got shot yet.

  Since that time I had a few more dead bodies, but I was nowhere near being used to dealing with them.

  We found the address and parked the car in front of a fire hydrant out front. The building was a typical pre–World War II Manhattan five-story walk-up with a couple of steps leading up to the entrance. The first thing I noticed was the front door propped open with a few Chinese menus and some undelivered junk mail. This was not a good sign. And as soon as my foot hit the top step I realized why. The smell hit me like a punch in the face. Once you smell it you’ll never forget it for the rest of your life.

  If you ever had a mouse drop dead behind the stove or refrigerator and you can’t find it, you know the smell I’m talking about. A mouse weighs a couple of ounces. Imagine one hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds of decaying flesh.

  I put my hand over my nose and mouth. The lingering aroma of bacon and eggs on my fingers was a relief. I think.

  When we walked in, a male Hispanic stepped forward eager to meet us. Obviously he was the super. He had the generic drab green matching shirt and pants supers like to wear, with the name “Jose” stitched over the front pocket. I gave him my generic cop hello: “Somebody call the police?”

  Jose gave us the story. He had a young female, mid-twenties, living in a second-floor apartment that he hadn’t seen or heard from in a few days. Apparently the girl’s parents hadn’t heard from her either and called Jose to ask if he could check up on her. So Jose being the helpful—slash—busybody super, he went and knocked on her door. After knocking a few times and getting no answer, he put his ear to the door in order to listen more carefully, but the only thing coming through the crack was silence and the smell of putrid, decaying flesh.

  Jose had been at the super game for a long time and knew exactly what the smell was. This wasn’t his first “foul odor” job. But before calling the parents back and telling them there was a problem, he wanted to be sure, so he climbed down the fire escape and through the window. After checking things out and satisfying his own curiosity, he left the apartment through the front door, and when he did, he let the odor out that had been building up for the last few days. Now everybody in the building understood why cops hate responding to a ripe DOA.

  Jose gave us the girl’s pedigree info and said the parents were upstairs waiting for us. Right away I was relieved—this was turning out to be an easy one. The victim was properly identified and the parents were on the scene, so there was no need for a missing persons report. Some quick paperwork, have the sergeant and detectives respond, and we would be done in no time. I hoped the boss would have some rookie with even less time on the job than I had sit on the body until the medical examiner’s wagon showed up, and we could save the rest of the day. Maybe even make a collar later.

  I grabbed the apartment keys off Jose and headed for the stairs, but before I could get too far he blurted out, “Hey man, we got a problem.”

  He explained to me that the mother had wanted to go into the apartment to see her daughter, and when he told her no she got mad and almost ripped his head off. She was adamant about seeing her daughter and nobody was going to tell her no.

  Now that the police were on the scene it wasn’t Jose’s problem anymore, it was mine, and angry moms can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to their kids. Especially dead ones.

  The smell in the lobby was sickening, so without even going upstairs I already knew I was never going to let Mom step foot in that apartment. I didn’t know what was waiting for me up there, but I sure as hell knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. And there was no way I was going to let a mother see her child like that.

  I walked up a couple of steps, then stopped. I had to take care of some unfinished business with Jose. I turned and said, “You know you shouldn’t have gone into the apartment. You should have waited for the police.”

  I didn’t have to explain any further. Jose knew exactly what I was talking about. It wasn’t unusual for the super to go into a DOA’s residence and clean it out of jewelry and cash before the police could safeguard it for the family.

  I put on my dead-serious cop face and told him, “If there is anything missing, I’m coming to look for you first.” Jose gave me his best puppy-dog eyes and said, “Oh no, Officer, I would never.”

  I walked up the stairs to the second floor, and with every step the smell got worse. You can’t see it, but it’s thick and heavy and hangs in the air like a fog. It clings to everything it touches, the inside of your nostrils and throat, even your clothes.

  When we got to the apartment, there were two middle-aged people waiting for me, Mom and Dad. I started to introduce myself, but before I could get a word out Mom charged me and very firmly stated, “Officer, I want to see my daughter!”

  The daughter was in her mid-twenties, the same age as me, so when I looked at Mom and Dad they could have easily been my parents. I was in uniform, with my shiny new silver shield, and my one medal for good police work, but at that moment I felt like a little boy being scolded and I instinctively backed up half a step.

  As Mom was reading me the riot act Dad was standing a few feet behind her just watching. He had the kind of face that had “nice guy” written all over it. I looked over to him for a little help, but right away I could tell that wasn’t going to happen. I don’t know if Mom normally wore the pants in the family, but today she was definitely in charge.

  Before we went up Jose had given me a little family history. Our deceased had suffered from diabetes all her life, and about a year ago she convinced her parents to let her move out and get her own apartment. Apparently this was not an easy decision for her parents because she was an only child and very sick. I could tell already the parents were holding a lot of guilt. Maybe if they had held their ground and said no to moving out, we would not be here gagging on the smell of decaying flesh.

  I don’t know how it was possible, but apparently Mom was in denial. I think she was hoping there was some other explanation for the smell seeping from under the door, and she was not going to believe her daughter was dead until she saw the body.

  I let Mom vent for a minute or so and just politely nodded as she warned me that she was going to see her daughter and there was nothing I could do to stop her. As Mom harangued me I glanced over to Dad a few times again looking for help, but I got nothing. I could tell he was looking to me for help.

  As Mom paused to catch her breath I put my hands up and said, “Okay, okay, I understand. Just let me go in first and check things out.”

  She must have thought she was making some progress with me, so she calmed down and reluctantly agreed to let me go in first. At this point all I was doing was stalling, hoping my sergeant would show up soon. He was a great guy with a lot of time on the job. He always knew what to do and what to say, and I was sure he would know how to handle Mom.

  I don’t know why, maybe my uniform made me look older and wiser then I actually was, but for the time being Mom was listening to me and Dad seemed to be trusting me.

  As I stood there in that hallway letting Mom vent, and looking into Dad’s helpless eyes, the feeling of being a little boy being scolded by his mother was suddenly replaced by a huge sense of responsibility. I felt terrible for these people. I knew there was no hope. I knew there was no possible explanation for the smell coming out of that room other than a dead body. My partner was a great cop. I trusted him with my life on a daily basis, but he had all the compassion of Attila the Hun, so I knew this was up to me to deal with.

  I put the key in the lock and opened the door just enough for my partner and me to slip in, then slammed it shut. I didn’t want Mom trying to peek
inside.

  I figured we could hang out in the apartment and stall until the boss arrived and let him deal with the mother. The situation was getting tense, and I was looking forward to getting out of that hallway for a few minutes and letting things settle down a little. When we got inside I couldn’t believe it. The hallway was bad, but the apartment was unbearable. Right away I put my hand over my nose and mouth and tried to suck in the last lingering aroma of bacon and eggs.

  The apartment was a small studio, and as soon as you walked in, the bed was in front of you. And on the mattress, stained with body fluids, and covered with flies and maggots, was the body of Karen.

  Jose had described her as young and pretty, but not anymore. Now you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, young or old. Her body was black and bloated, and flies and maggots were feasting on the eyes and swollen tongue. The only way I could tell it was a female was by the red painted finger- and toenails, and the pink and white cutoff girlie pajamas. The type a woman would wear when going to bed on a hot summer night. And by the looks of things I could tell she went to “sleep” at least a few nights ago.

  I couldn’t help but notice the air conditioner in the window next to the bed was turned off. If she had only put it on before going to bed this mess wouldn’t be half as bad.

  I stood there for a moment with my hand over my nose and mouth, swatting away flies and breathing the most shallow breaths possible. Old-time cops will tell you to go down to the corner store and buy the fattest stinkiest cigar you can find and light it up. Another trick is burning coffee grinds in a pot on the stove. We even have DOA crystals that you sprinkle on the floor. They smell sweet, kind of like bubble gum, but nothing was going to help here. This was the worst I had ever seen.