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

by Steve Osborne

  I looked around a little confused. With all that adrenaline pumping through my body, were my ears playing tricks on me? I was sure I heard something, but what? Then suddenly I heard it again—a very faint moan.

  The sound seemed to be coming from the window. It was open about a foot, and outside the window I could see a fire escape. Okay, it’s showtime again. I pulled out my gun and stepped toward the window. I wasn’t crazy about sticking my head outside because I still hadn’t found the nut job with the knife. Was he out there waiting for some dope to stick his head out? No person with a half a brain would go sticking their head out that window, but I had to see who or what was making the noise.

  I pulled open the window and shined my light outside. Still nothing. Very cautiously, I poked my head out just an inch or two, gun in one hand and flashlight in the other. As I stuck my head out into the night air the moaning was getting a little louder, and when I looked up, there she was. Another woman in the exact same nightgown, covered in blood. This must be the sister!

  She was sitting on the steps up on the second floor curled up into a ball, knees to her chest, rocking back and forth with the same zombie-like thousand-yard stare her sister had. She was hiding, and crying—as quietly as she could.

  I called up to her and told her to come down, but she wasn’t budging. She was in shock and had no intention of coming back into the apartment. She just sat there barefoot in the fetal position, rocking, sobbing, and bleeding.

  It seemed like the perfect time to give my feel-good speech again, so I told her we were the police and everything would be all right, but she wouldn’t move. She was only ten feet away, but she wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I was going to have to climb up and get her.

  I moved the bed out of the way and climbed onto the fire escape. I was hoping if she saw me in uniform she would realize she was now safe and could come down, but no luck. Uniform or no uniform, she just sat there crying, refusing to move.

  As I climbed the metal steps, I shined my light on her and I could see she was hacked up just as bad as the first woman. She had cuts and slash wounds all over her body. I kept shining my flashlight up and down, and into the alley below. I was looking for the maniac with the knife, making sure he didn’t sneak up on me. The last thing I wanted was to get into a knife fight on a fire escape in the dark.

  After a few minutes of calm, soothing talk, I convinced her everything was over and she was safe. I put on a pair of rubber gloves, reached out, took her by the hand, and helped her down the steps and back into the window.

  She wasn’t too crazy about going back into the apartment, but I convinced her the perp was gone and everything was going to be all right. As I guided her through the kitchen I couldn’t help but notice she kept her hands over her face and only looked straight ahead. She didn’t want to look at all the blood. Or remember what happened here.

  I walked her outside and reunited her with the sister. The two bloody women hugged for what seemed like a long time. They seemed really happy to see each other, and to be alive. I sat them on the front steps of the building, and I called for another ambulance.

  At this point the dispatcher was getting a little confused. I had to explain to her, slowly, that I had a male shot on Twelfth Street, a pickup of a female stabbed on Twelfth Street but the place of occurrence was actually on Eleventh Street, and now I had another female stabbed inside a building on Eleventh Street.

  A few minutes later another sector showed up, and after a couple of “Holy shit”s, they started scratching out the necessary paperwork. Luckily one of the cops spoke Spanish, and we got half a story from the victims before they went to the hospital.

  They actually were sisters, and the first one’s husband was the perp. Turns out it was a family dispute turned really, really ugly. The wife explained that she was having a heated argument with her beloved, and sisters being sisters—especially in the heat of battle—they stuck together. And when the second woman butted in, the husband went ape shit. He didn’t like being double-teamed, so he grabbed a large kitchen knife from the sink and carved the two of them up.

  During the struggle one ran out the front door and the other jumped out the window. The husband, realizing he fucked up big-time, fled into the night to parts unknown. Family disputes can get very ugly. I think next time, the sister is gonna know better than to throw her two cents in.

  The wife finishes up by telling us they are Colombian, and she thinks her husband will try to flee back to Colombia on the first flight he can get. I make a mental note to tell the detectives. She also tells me he is a cop back there. Whatever the fuck that means. I’m sure “cop” in Colombia can be a very vague term.

  I take a walk around the corner back to the shooting scene to talk to the detectives, and when I get there I’m a little surprised to see only two. Usually there are more at a crime scene. They explain to me they have two shootings uptown already, and both victims went “out of the picture” (DOA). Two detectives was all Night Watch could spare at this time.

  When I tell them I have two stabbing victims from an unrelated incident around the corner, they just shrug and tell me to notify the Borough. They can only do one thing at a time.

  In the police department, assault victims fall into one of three categories: DOA, “likely to die,” or “not likely to die.” And homicides are always a priority over victims who may or may not go out of the picture. Before I make a call I need to know what condition my victims are in, so I jump in the car and take a ride up to Bellevue emergency room.

  When you walk into the ER on a busy night, you might think there’s a war going on outside. People are laying around shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, sick, and crazy—all waiting to be treated in priority order.

  I walked up to the desk and as politely as I could inquired on the condition of my victims. The nurses and doctors were as busy in the ER as I was out in the street and not too interested in a long conversation. Cops can be a little demanding when we want something, so I put on my happy face and asked real nice.

  The nurse told me my shooting victim was up in the OR in critical condition, and that he was probably “likely.” Next she went out on a limb and told me the stabbing victims were probably “Not Likely.” Although they were a bloody mess, most of the cuts were slash wounds and nothing too deep. That one surprised me a little. I thanked her as we both exchanged smiles. Two professionals having a busy night.

  I borrowed the phone behind her desk to make my notifications to the Borough and Night Watch, then I jumped into the car and headed back to the precinct. Just because I had one shot and two stabbed didn’t mean the night was over. I had at least another hour before the sun came up, and the world would be normal again—and a little while after that, I could go home.

  The night was buzzing along, and I hardly had a chance to catch my breath. It was almost 5:00 a.m., and finally the radio was starting to slow down a bit. My growling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything all night. I looked down at the paper bag on the floor next to my feet and told my driver to pull over so I could have my now cold coffee and stale bagel.

  We found a quiet corner to chill out, but just as I brought the cold coffee to my lips I got interrupted again. Central was trying to give me a job of a “man down.”

  At first it sounded like a bullshit job. Probably another drunk who fell and can’t get up. Sergeants don’t usually interrupt their cold, stale breakfast for a job like this, so I tell her to give it to the next available sector. But not this time. The dispatcher tells me there are additional calls coming in. The male either jumped or fell out a window.

  I put the lid back on my coffee, wrap up my bagel, and off we go speeding through the night—again.

  We pulled up to the scene, screeched to a halt, and jumped out. A few people had stopped and were gathered around a crumpled body lying on the ground. I marched up and threw my usual question out to the crowd. “Anybody see what happened?” I got the usual answer in return. A bunch of shrugs and bla
nk uninterested stares.

  The flashing red and white lights from my car lit up the area, and from a few feet away I could tell the guy was in bad shape. He was a young guy, early to mid-twenties, lying on his side curled up next to a fire hydrant. He wasn’t moving, and the only sound coming from him was a very faint moan.

  When I walked up to him I could tell he was still breathing, but the back of his head was a matted mess of blood, hair, and bone. I shined my flashlight on him and I could see he had a large hole in the back of his head. It appeared to be pushed in. It looked to me like just before he hit the ground he clipped the back of his head on the fire hydrant.

  I looked up and saw the open fourth-floor window he fell out of. When we drove by earlier I had noticed a party going on. The windows were open and the loud music could be heard out in the street. Maybe if the night had not been so busy, I would have knocked on their door and told them to turn it down, and explained that maybe they should have a little consideration for the neighbors. But tonight was way too busy to stop for a bullshit noise complaint.

  I knelt down next to the kid and instinctively gave him my usual feel-good speech. In calm, soothing tones I told him to relax, the ambulance was on the way, and he was going to be all right. But this time I had a feeling that I might be lying.

  Just then it dawned on me. I was giving my usual feel-good speech a lot tonight.

  I’m not sure the kid even heard me. He was pretty much out of it. He was moaning and gasping for breath at irregular intervals. I’m no surgeon, but I could tell he had a traumatic brain injury in addition to any other broken bones and internal injuries the fall might have caused. There was not much for me to do except radio Central and ask for a “rush on the bus.”

  As I hovered over the kid I could feel eyes peering over my shoulder. Heads moving in closer trying to get a better look. I turned and saw the crowd of about a half a dozen bystanders inching in. Just like at an accident on the highway, people want to slow down and gawk at other people’s misery. I guess it makes them feel better about their own lives—things could always be worse for them.

  Sometimes the public can really piss you off, and I snapped. I turned around and yelled, “Get the fuck away from me!” The crowd could tell from my tone of voice I wasn’t kidding, so they jumped back and started walking. But not before turning to take one last look.

  I turned back to the kid and inched in closer. I was on my hands and knees, hovering right over him to shield his face with my body from the nosy public. I was trying my best to give him some privacy and little dignity.

  As the kid struggled for every breath, all I could do was talk to him in a calm reassuring voice. I told him to keep to breathing and “Don’t give up.” I grabbed his hand and told him to squeeze it if he could hear me. But I got nothing, his cold fingers hung limp in mine. When I asked him if he could hear me, his eyelids fluttered up and down. His eyeballs were rolling back and forth in his head, and he seemed to be looking up at something. Something only he could see.

  I was feeling a little helpless. I knew for sure the kid couldn’t see me, but maybe he was listening to me. There was nothing I could do except to talk and try to comfort him. I kept telling him to keep breathing, and that he was going to be okay. But right then, as I watched him struggle for every breath, I realized that my voice was probably the last thing he was ever going to hear on this earth.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever had the opportunity to kneel over a person lying in the street and talk to them while they die. It’s something you don’t forget—no matter how hard you try.

  EMS got there pretty quick, but there was not much for them to do either. This kid needed a brain surgeon. They bandaged him up and loaded him into the back of the ambulance and raced off. At Bellevue this kid was going to the front of the line.

  Turns out he was at the party, drinking and having a good time. It was a little hot in the apartment, so he sat straddling the windowsill—one foot inside, and the other dangling in the cool night air. There was no foul play. He was just drunk, lost his balance, and rolled out the window to the street below.

  I told the sector to secure the crime scene and I would start making the necessary notifications. When I called the detectives they must have thought I was making this stuff up or breaking their balls. A male shot, two females stabbed, and now a guy out a window “likely to die.” All in the last four hours!

  When I told them I wasn’t kidding, they wanted to know about the kid’s condition. I told them he was in bad shape and was probably going out of the picture. I also told them we were holding a bunch of angry partygoers at the scene who wanted to leave. The party was now over, and they wanted to go home, or to some after-hours joint, not sit and talk to the cops. But tough shit, they weren’t going anywhere till they got interviewed by the detectives.

  I volunteered to take a run up to the hospital and check on the kid’s condition and if he was “likely” they would have to dig up a couple of detectives to send to me. Seemed like everybody was busy tonight.

  I grabbed my driver, jumped in the car, and headed for the emergency room. Red and white flashing lights swirled around us as we raced through traffic—again.

  When I walked in, I checked the examination rooms, looking for my victim. I found him in the big room on the end, the one reserved for the serious cases. When I poked my head in, there were a couple of doctors and nurses working on him. One doctor had his hands in the kid’s chest doing open-heart massage while the others were milling around the room. The look of non-urgency on their faces told me all I needed to know. The kid was probably dead a while ago, and they were just going through the motions because they have to.

  The doctor with his hands inside the kid’s chest saw me standing in the doorway and looked up. He knew what I was there for. As he squeezed the kid’s heart a few last times he looked at me and shook his head “no.”

  The kid never even made it to the operating room. I wasn’t surprised. I had a feeling I was lying when I told him he was going to be all right.

  I took out my pad and pen and asked for a time and a name. I needed the time of death and the doctor who would pronounce him. Time of death was 5:49 a.m.

  I looked at my watch and all I could think of was how busy it had been. All this carnage happened in the last four hours. A kid shot, two women stabbed, and a guy out a window, and the night wasn’t over yet. Soon the sun would come up, and the world would be normal again, and I could go home. But not yet. I still had about two more hours to go before “end of tour.”

  I borrowed the phone behind the nurses’ station and made my notifications. The detective promised to send me someone as soon as he could.

  When I got back to the car, my driver slammed the gearshift into drive and got ready to race back to the precinct, but I told him, “Hold it!” I looked at the bag on the floor with my stale bagel and cold coffee, and decided I needed a minute to myself.

  I unwrapped my bagel and took the lid off my coffee, but before I could take a sip, I looked down and saw blood on the front of my shirt. A shirt that was fresh from the dry cleaners only a few hours ago.

  And as I sat there eating with one hand, and trying to wipe the red drops off with a napkin in the other hand, it dawned on me. I felt nothing! I was numb inside. I wanted to feel bad for these people. I should feel bad for these people. But I felt nothing. I especially wanted to feel bad for the kid out the window, but I was as cold inside as my coffee.

  I’m not heartless or uncaring, it’s just that I see a lot of misery in my line of work, and you have to be a survivor. Normal people don’t live like this, but cops do. You don’t only have to survive physically, but you have to survive mentally. You not only have to be careful not to get shot in the back, or get into a knife fight on a fire escape, but you also have to keep from losing your mind—and your humanity. And you do that by building a wall between you and the outside world. You do it by building a wall between you and your feelings.

  I do
it because I’ll be back on patrol tomorrow night, and the night after that. The radio never stops and the misery never ends. And chances are I’ll be kneeling next to some other kid soon, telling him he’s going to be all right—and maybe lying again.

  I have friends and relatives who have much better jobs than me. They work in a beautiful office, wear nice clothes, and make a hell of a lot more money than I do. And I can’t help but smile when they tell me how busy it is at work, and how stressed out they are.

  8.

  Stockbroker

  I was hanging out behind the desk in the Ninth Precinct staring up at the clock. It was 1:50 a.m. and in ten more minutes I could sign out and call it a night. As hard as we tried, we came up empty. Me and my guys had been looking all night for a collar, but nothing worthwhile came our way. I was thinking it was time to switch to plan B—go have a beer.

  Some nights it just turns out that way. My guys were good cops and the Ninth was a busy place but anti-crime cops are only allowed to make quality arrests, like robbery, burglary, grand larceny, grand larceny auto, assault, rape, and of course, gun collars. Sometimes we make a couple of collars a night and everybody gets on the “sheet.” And sometimes no matter how hard we look we come up dry. Tonight was one of those nights.

  Anti-crime cops are usually the best cops in the precinct—or, as we say, the most active. They’re the cops that like to go out and do the job and don’t mind rolling around on the ground once in a while with some bad guy and getting a little dirty. We’re the cowboys in the precinct who go out in the street and come back with the best collars.

  The only ones who will argue with that are the guys who tried to get into A/C and didn’t make it. And for all that enthusiasm and good work, we get to ride around in unmarked cars and wear plainclothes while we cruise the streets looking for trouble.

  We’re not allowed to answer radio runs or take a collar from a sector car just because they don’t want it. All our stuff is self-generated. Our job is to go out and hunt. And it is like hunting—very much so.