Every precinct has an anti-crime team. It usually consists of a sergeant and about five cops. Usually they are the best cops in the precinct. The commanding officer handpicks the most active cops, puts them in plainclothes with unmarked cars, and lets them go out and tear up the streets.
It takes a couple of years of proving yourself before you get picked, so just being in anti-crime is kind of prestigious. We were sort of the cowboys in the precinct. We only went after the most serious stuff and we always brought in the best collars.
For me there was no better feeling in the world than dragging some bad guy into the station house in handcuffs, slapping a gun on the desk, and telling the lieutenant, “I got one for robbery.”
While sipping my coffee, scanning the crowd, and listening to the police radio all at the same time, I asked George, “If we don’t get anything good tonight, do you think you’re going to be thirsty later?” He knew exactly what I meant. I wanted to know if he was up for a beer after work. His handlebar mustache wrinkled for a second while he thought about it and he said, “You might be able to twist my arm a little.” We both knew it wasn’t going to take too much arm-twisting.
Just then, as we were sitting there bullshitting, drinking coffee, and girl watching, this dude walks right past the front of our car. He looks right at us and you can tell he’s bugging out. This guy is freaking! He’s got panic written all over his face.
I look at him, then I look at the sketch. My eyes are going a mile a minute, darting back and forth between the sketch and this guy’s face. George is doing the exact same thing. It didn’t take long until we both reached the same conclusion. He looks exactly like the sketch!
One thing is for sure, this guy made us and he’s freaking the fuck out. But it can’t be this easy. Everybody in Manhattan South is looking for him and he walks right past the front of our car! I couldn’t believe we could get this lucky, but what the hell, why not? I’ll take it. A lot of times good police work comes down to luck. Being in the right place at the right time.
Now George and I are both professionals. On the inside we’re racing, we’re doing a hundred miles an hour, but on the outside we remain cool. I said, “What do you think?” George shot right back, “Looks good to me, bro, let’s jump him.”
I’m thinking, sketches aren’t perfect but this guy is way too close. We’ve got to grab him and get a better look, but the problem is he made us. We lost the element of surprise.
The best way to grab a guy like this is to “shock the shit” out of him. We run up on him, jump him, and BAM! The next thing he knows is he’s face first against the wall with a gun screwed into his ear. He never gets a chance to try something stupid. But he made us and now he’s got the advantage. If he’s our guy he could just whip out the gun and light us up—ending all dancing careers—before we ever get out of the car.
So we decide to let him take a few more steps. We want to put a little distance between him and us, so we sit tight for a few seconds just playing it cool. But as we’re watching him, he’s watching us. You could see him peeking out of the corner of his eye trying to see what we were doing.
He was walking south on Fifth Avenue toward Eighth Street and was now past the corner of the building line we were sitting parallel to. It was time to make a move, so I grab the sketch, shove it in my pocket, and jump out of the car. We hustled up to the corner and start to peek around, but when I got there he was gone. He was nowhere in sight. I was pissed. I turned toward George, who was right on my heels, and said, “He fucking took off on us!”
We jogged down the block looking all over for this guy, but nothing. Now we were the ones who were bugging out. We had him right in our mitts, and now in ten seconds we’d lost him.
My mind was racing, “Shit, shit, shit, I can’t believe this. Everybody in the world is looking for this guy, and we had him, and lost him.” Because George and I are both calm, cool professionals who may have just fucked up big-time, we’re raging on the inside, but on the outside we’re keeping it together.
“All right, let’s think about this. We were only a couple of seconds behind him. He couldn’t have gone too far,” I said.
I started looking around, trying to figure out where he could have ducked into. I looked back along Fifth Avenue where we just ran from. There was one building, but it was a nice one with a doorman in the lobby, and there was no way the doorman would have let him in unless he lived there. And if he lived there he probably wasn’t our boy.
He didn’t run all the way south on Fifth Avenue toward Washington Square Park because we could have seen him. He didn’t run west on Eighth Street because we would have seen him cross Fifth Avenue.
The only place he could have run to was east on Eighth Street. So we tear ass down to there, but still nothing. The guy was gone. He was nowhere in sight. We looked around trying to size things up.
It was a long run from Fifth Avenue to University Place. George and I both looked at each other and realized the same thing, he must have ducked into one of the stores. We both relaxed a little because if we were right we were going to get him.
We started walking up Eight Street because there was no need to run anymore, he was close, I could feel it. I reached into my back pocket and turned down the radio, no need to let him hear us coming. Then I reached under my shirt and unsnapped my holster. Out of the corner of my eye I saw George was doing the same. We were side by side, step for step, and walking with a purpose. I kind of felt like Gary Cooper in High Noon walking down a dusty street. We were ready for a gunfight.
The first place we passed that he could have ducked into was a bank. I looked through the window but nothing. At the same time George kept scanning the street just in case the guy popped out somewhere else.
We continued walking. Next was a pharmacy. The window was covered with posters and merchandise and I couldn’t see inside, so I opened the door and slowly eased my way in. George covered the doorway. He was watching my back, but he was still keeping an eye on the street.
I took a quick look around and everything was quiet. There were a couple of people shopping and everything seemed normal, except for me. I must have appeared pretty suspicious, eyeballing everybody while holding something big and black under my shirt. I glanced over to the clerk, who was watching every move I made, and I could tell he was bugging out a little himself right now. He probably thought he was getting robbed, so I pulled out the shield that was hanging on a chain around my neck and said, “Police. Did anyone come running in here?” The clerk shook his head no. He seemed very relieved that I was a cop.
We continued walking up the block, taking everything in and becoming more and more aware of our surroundings. We were looking at everybody and everything. Just sucking it all in.
Next was an indoor parking garage, which I knew was going to be a pain in the ass. It had two levels that went down into the basement and probably had over a hundred cars parked in there. It would take both of us to do this right, which would leave the street not covered.
As we approached the garage I was thinking about calling for another anti-crime team to back us up. I was a little hesitant because I didn’t want to have to explain how we had the guy and then lost him. Things like that can be embarrassing.
Just as I was reaching for the radio in the back pocket of my jeans, I saw him. Holy shit—there he was! He’s peeking from around a corner inside the garage. I see him but the problem is, he also sees us.
George and I have done this hundreds of times. There’s no need to talk about who does what or how we’re going to approach this guy. It’s like it’s choreographed.
Okay, here we go! It’s showtime. I pulled out my shield, whipped out my gun, and charged him. I started yelling at the top of my lungs, “POLICE, DON’T MOVE, DON’T MOVE MOTHERFUCKER OR I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!” George was right next to me yelling similar profanity-laced instructions at him.
And that’s how real cops do it out in the street. Don’t believe that
bullshit you see on TV where the cop talks in a normal tone of voice and tells the bad guy to put his hands behind his head and walk backward to the sound of his voice. That might work out in L.A. or someplace like that, but it don’t work here. New York bad guys would just laugh at us and run away.
Anytime you pull a gun on a person, it’s stressful for all parties concerned. Especially when you think the other guy has a gun also. There’s never a “Go ahead, make my day” scenario in real life.
And don’t think that we just start yelling like that for no reason. The reason we start yelling like maniacs is to shock the shit out of him. We want that survival instinct of his to kick in. We want him to think that he’s about to die. We want him to think that if he makes one wrong move that we don’t like we’re going to kill him. And even if he is a real hard-core bad guy, in the end, he really doesn’t want to die, so he does what we tell him.
What we do is, we give the guy zero chance to think. He gets no time to try something stupid, or even think about trying something. He gets no time to react. It’s intimidating and disorienting all at the same time. If it goes well, it’s all over in about five seconds, and the next thing the perp knows he’s facedown on the ground in handcuffs.
It may seem like we’re being a little rough on the guy, but it’s safer for him and us. We want to end this thing, fast. Without anybody getting hurt—him or us.
So I’m pointing my gun right between his eyes and yelling at the top of my lungs for him to come out and keep his hands up. I’m cursing and yelling at him to show me his hands or I’ll blow his fucking head off.
And it worked just like it always does. The guy was stunned. He didn’t know whether to shit or buy a motorboat.
But as he comes out, trying to do what we’re telling him, he’s holding his arms across his head and face, and he’s crying like a baby. He’s covering his head and and yelling back at us, “Please don’t kill me, PLEEEEEASE, PLEEEEEASE, PLEEEEEASE, I’m sorry. PLEEEEEASE don’t kill me.”
Just then he falls to the ground and curls up into a ball, like in the fetal position. You could tell he was trying to cover up his vital organs because he thought he was about to be shot. And all the while he keeps crying, “PLEEEEEASE DON’T KILL ME.”
I have done this hundreds of times before, but I never had this reaction. My method always worked well in the past, but never this good. Now I was the one who was stunned. George and I both lowered our guns a few inches to get a better look at the guy. Then we kind of glanced at each other and shrugged in disbelief. I could tell at that moment we were both thinking the same thing: “What the fuck is going on here?”
At this point we both knew this probably wasn’t our guy. I doubted the armed robber we were looking for was a crybaby. By this time in my career I had locked up a lot of bad guys, and none of them had cried like this when we grabbed them.
I stood there for a moment looking at this guy lying on the ground begging us not to kill him. I put my gun back in my holster and stepped closer. George keeps his gun out. He’s covering me because right now we don’t know what’s going on.
I inch up closer and tell him, “Relax, man, we’re the police, take it easy.” But he doesn’t hear a word I’m saying. He’s still curled up into a ball with his head and face covered up. This time he’s rapid-fire whimpering and sobbing, “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry, PLEEEEEASE, PLEEEEEASE DON’T KILL ME…I’M ONLY A DENTIST.”
Apparently this guy did something to somebody, and right now he’s sure as shit sorry he did it. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m thinking it’s got to be something really bad because he thinks he’s about to be killed over it.
Now George and I are the ones bugging out. I don’t know whether to laugh or what. I walk closer to the guy and bend down next to him. He’s shaking and crying, and I’m thinking I’ve got to snap him out of it before he has a heart attack on us.
I’m holding my shield out in front of me so he can see it. It’s been out all the time, but this guy never saw it. And I know we yelled “Police” because we always do, but apparently he never heard me say it.
I get down right next to him, and I’m practically shoving my shield into his face and yelling, “LOOK AT ME!—LOOK AT ME!”
After a few seconds I finally get through to him and he looks up. He’s got boogers coming out of his nose, tears streaming down his face, and his lower lip is quivering. I point my shield right between his eyes and in a nice, calm, soothing voice I tell him, “We’re the police. Relax, nobody’s going to hurt you. It’s okay, just relax.”
Now that I have a better look at him, the guy is dressed kind of nice. He has on expensive dress slacks, a button-down shirt, and some nice shoes. But now he’s lying on the dirty floor so I help him up.
I give him a hand up, but he’s still a little wobbly and I have to hold on to him so he doesn’t fall back down. At this point I have to get a little firm with him, so I say, “Knock it off, man! You gotta relax! Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” But this guy is really shook up. He shaking like a leaf and I’m starting to feel bad for what I just did to him.
Just then I realize there are two parking attendants standing behind us watching the whole thing. One of them motions to a chair sitting a short distance away outside their office. I help the guy over and sit him down. On the desk inside the office are a few napkins, so I grab a couple and hand them to him. I tell him, “Here, blow your nose.”
As he blows his nose and gets himself together, I take the wanted poster out of my back pocket. George and I both look at it and god damn if he didn’t look just like the sketch. As George and I are looking back and forth between the sketch and our boy’s face, the parking attendant, Tony, is peeking over my shoulder. He starts yelling, “That’s him, man! You got him! That’s the dude.” Tony’s sidekick, another parking attendant, is bobbing his head up and down fast and furious, confirming Tony’s suspicions, and says, “Fucking A, bro, that’s him, you got him.”
Now I don’t feel so bad about almost giving this guy a heart attack. Tony and his sidekick agree, this guy looks exactly like the sketch.
But George and I both knew this wasn’t our robber. Armed robbers don’t usually fall on the ground sobbing like five-year-olds. By now our guy had regained his composure a little, so I took the sketch and held it in front of his face so he could take a long hard look at it. Then I said, “Who’s this?!”
For a second he seemed slightly amused at seeing his face on an NYPD wanted poster. With a little bit of a smile on his face he looked up at me and said, “I guess that looks a lot like me.”
I shot back, “No shit it looks like you!”
Then with puppy-dog eyes and a very sincere tone in his voice he countered, “But I assure you, it’s not me.”
At this point things lightened up a little. I knew he wasn’t our guy, and he knew he wasn’t about to be killed, so we all started to relax. But something wasn’t right about this guy, and I wanted to know what it was before we parted ways.
I put my serious face on again and it was back to business. I said, “I know NOW it’s not you, but something’s going on here and you better tell me what the fuck it is.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw the two parking attendants standing a short distance away, arms folded…waiting. They wanted to know what the fuck was going on here too. We all wanted to know what was going on. There had to be a story here somewhere.
To make a long story short, Doctor Crybaby here really is a dentist. And a very successful one because he lives a few blocks away on Fifth Avenue. He goes on to tell us that a few months back some Mafia guy from Brooklyn brought his girlfriend in for a little dental work. Well, I guess the little Italian princess took a liking to the doc’s soft sensitive side, and he started working on more than just her teeth. He filled more than just her cavity—if you know what I mean.
She probably latched on to
the doc because I’m sure he’s the opposite of her Mafia tough-guy killer boyfriend. I’m sure the doc is cuddlier and probably sleeps over when he’s done. He probably even makes breakfast for the two of them before he leaves. As opposed to Vinnie Bag o’ Donuts, who probably shows up at her apartment, the one he pays for, bangs the shit out of her, then leaves. But not before having her make him a sandwich.
But Vinnie is no dummy, and it didn’t take long for him to figure out something was up, and when he does he sends a message to the doc that he better knock it off before something very very bad happens to him.
I could just picture this chick, she must have been smoking hot, with the tight jeans and high heels, popping the bubble gum. I wanted to ask him if he had any pictures of her. I really wanted to see what this chick looked like. I wanted to see what was worth getting killed over. But I couldn’t ask for a picture. That wouldn’t be very professional.
Anyway the doc just can’t resist her charms and he keeps on seeing her. But the whole time he’s sneaking around, he’s looking over his shoulder waiting for something very very bad to happen to him. And when he sees me and George sitting in the car right down the block from his building, he thinks that we are two of Vinnie’s guys coming to whack him.
Believe it or not, I’m a little bit of a people person and after hearing his story I believe him. He had business cards in his wallet that said he was a dentist. He had all the right answers. Everything was making sense.
But now I felt kind of bad about scaring him the way we did. We were a hundred percent right doing what we did, but I felt like I had to make it up to him somehow. So I figured I’d give him my best Father Flanagan advice.
I put my hand on his shoulder and in my most sincere, caring voice I told him, “Listen, Doc, I don’t care what this broad looks like, it’s not worth dying over a piece of pussy. I don’t care how good-looking this chick is—you can get plenty of girls. You’re a dentist!!!”
The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop Page 8
