Legends of Winter Hill: Cops, Con Men, and Joe McCain, the Last Real Detective

by Jay Atkinson

  Soon we are pouring the caramel-colored truth serum down our throats and making a passel of new best friends. Though it's early in the evening, the sky has darkened and the first drops of rain begin pattering against the tent. Everyone on the outside moves under the roof while an enormous Arkansas sheriff bellows from the midst of the throng. He's the size of a professional wrestler, barrel-chested and bald-headed, and has his arms around two lesser titans: a dreadlocked undercover cop with gigantic biceps and another large black dude wearing a “Detroit Police” T-shirt. The sheriff from Arkansas is wearing a pistol the size of my forearm and downing cans of Miller like it's nobody's business.

  Jonathan Hoellrich, all five feet nine and 160 pounds of him, says, “Watch this,” and hands me his drink. Approaching the three swaying giants, Hoellrich flings his arms out wide and proclaims in a loud voice, “I want to fight all three of you guys, right here, right now.”

  For a moment the big sheriff is stymied, his eyes bulging, a tiny upturned baseball cap riding the crown of his head like a yarmulke. Hoellrich snorts through one nostril and raises his hand in a bullshit kung fu pose. “I'll tear you apart,” he says.

  The sheriff roars with laughter, spraying the crowd around him with a mouthful of beer foam. He drops the Rastafarian cop and reaches out to grab Hoellrich by the neck, crushing him in a bear hug. “Aaaarggh,” he says. “I like you.”

  Hoellrich comes sauntering back to us. “He's lucky I didn't kick his ass,” he says.

  The rain has increased, and brown water awash with flotsam is rushing along the sidewalk. Joe Jr. is nearby, talking with Dave Moseley, a Metropolitan cop from D.C. They're both members of the Renegade Pigs, a contingent of whom, including Joey, have ridden their Harleys down to the memorial from New York City. Stocky, bearded, and mustachioed, Joe Jr. and his buddy have shed their badges and guns and are drinking beer with one foot on the curbstone and the other in the gutter.

  “It's like Calcutta,” says Joey, watching the water stream by. He squats over the torrent and pantomimes taking a shit and then a drink. “Soup, anyone?”

  McCain and Moseley share the opinion that real cops understand and recognize one another and don't have to advertise what they do for a living. Joey eyes the pretty boys in the crowd with the sleeves rolled up on their polo shirts and their badges hanging out and says, “I don't know if you guys realize it or not, but there's a shitload of cops around here.”

  Moseley and Hoellrich and Donahue snort into their beers while Joey laughs and spits into the gutter. The weather has driven more partyers under the tent, and we get squeezed onto the sidewalk, bareheaded, no umbrellas, the rain diluting our drinks. In a moment of inspiration, Hoellrich unfastens the two bottom cords of a Miller Lite banner tied to the fence and lifts it up to form a shelter-half. Soon five more cops duck beneath Jonathan's invention, the water slanting off to each side.

  “Now that's leadership,” says Hoellrich, who's planning to take the sergeant's exam next month. “If I was in 'Nam, I woulda made a tent out of a matchstick.” He peers out at the crowd. “Hey, where's all the hot prosecutors?”

  Nearby is a short, stocky guy with a Jersey accent. “You look like a fed,” he says to me.

  Because I'm trim and have short hair and don't say much, everyone thinks I'm with the FBI. But really I'm just an old-time newsie, a pad and pen stuck away in my pocket, eavesdropping on all the conversations swirling around me. Everybody's drunk and armed to the teeth, a scene right out of the 1850s, and there hasn't been a scoop like this since the lords of the inkwell chased Pinkerton and his men as they pursued the Wild Bunch across the Texas Panhandle. I should be wearing a bowler hat and carrying Apache charms.

  The guy from Jersey is a forty-one-year-old detective with the Newark P.D. named Bobby Clark, and he's certain that I taught a course he took in New York City called “High Intensity Drug Trafficking,” which is offered through the FBI Academy. “Your hair was darker, but it was you, all right,” Bobby says. “The thin nose, the posture, everything.”

  I tell him that he's mistaken and he buys me a drink. He buys everyone a drink. His partner, Rueben Torres, is a muscular Puerto Rican kid with his hair combed straight back who proclaims himself “the best-looking cop in Jersey.” The Newark guys are a couple of hot shits and they gain immediate acceptance in our corner; Rueben even tries to make time with Joe Doyle's daughter.

  Donahue takes delight in pointing this out. “Lookit, Joe,” he says.

  “Gimme a fucking break,” says Doyle, laughing.

  The Newark guys are busy telling Donahue and Hoellrich that two cops ride in every patrol car in their jurisdiction, an example of largesse that amazes the New Hampshire cops but something the Jersey detectives insist is a necessity.

  “Fucking killers out there,” says Rueben. In the Vailsburg section of Newark, a small number of Russian mob types have managed to unseat a powerful chapter of the Bloods, a California-based gang made up of violent black kids.

  “These guys are fucking scared of the Russians,” says Rueben, noting that the Russians operate a string of chop shops in the South district, off Frelinghuysen. “They have no respect for anything.”

  Rueben and Bobby are also stuck on the notion of genuine cops versus fake cops. Bobby explains that real cops write letters to the chief asking for more typewriter ribbons, while the phony cops brag about gunfights they've been in.

  “You wanna meet a real cop? I'll show you a real fuckin' cop,” he says, jerking my elbow.

  We hop across the narrow alley of rain and pass under the tent. Standing in a circle of other guys is a light-skinned black kid from Howard County, Maryland. He wears his hair in short, tight cornrows and shakes my hand and nods when Bobby introduces us.

  In baggy jeans and an oversized windbreaker, Mark Taylor looks like a guy who hangs out on a corner somewhere, doing a little business, one of those urban account executives you'll find in every city in America. But he's an undercover narcotics cop, albeit a soft-spoken one, a humble man in a job that has often been filled by bigmouthed cowboys. Taylor explains that the marijuana and Ecstasy dealers in his neck of the woods are not particularly violent but are well-organized, and he and his partner, a tall, young, silent kid with darker skin, are making a ton of good pinches.

  “You been in a drug raid yet?” Taylor asks me, flashing a smile. “It's a rush.”

  When Bobby the Newark cop and I return to our previous spot, he shakes his head, indicating a group of muscle-bound cops tricked out in their monogrammed golf shirts and nouveau high-and-tight haircuts. “I'd take that kid from Maryland over those guys anytime,” he says, rounding out his vowels in a thick Jersey accent. “Don't ask me how I know, but he's a real cop. There are five hundred guys in here and about two dozen real cops and he's one of 'em.”

  Bobby says that a real cop goes to work every day realizing there's a possibility he may die on the job but doesn't sensationalize the danger of his profession or himself. He does the job for its own sake, and doesn't seek recognition or commendations. Sergeant Bobby Clark, who has made a thousand arrests in the past ten years, is describing someone he's never met: Joe McCain.

  A few yards away, several guys from the Norfolk P.D. are affixing their departmental stickers on the proffered rear ends of some exotic dancers who have shown up at the party. A gang of cops has circled the bent-over strippers, hooting and whistling as each sticker is applied with greater flourish.

  “They're getting Norfolk-ed,” says Mark Donahue, his eyes turning sixes and sevens.

  Jonathan Hoellrich runs over and juts out his butt and the other cops turn away in disgust. “Whattaya mean?” asks Hoellrich. “Look at me. I got a made-for-television ass.”

  It's getting late and we decide to head for a place called Harry's Bar. Mark Donahue, Hoellrich, Joe Doyle and Jessica, Joe McCain, Jr., Maureen, and I reach Harry's just as the waiters begin circulating for last call and we order a round of beers. The waiter comes back right away and slings the beers
and several bowls of popcorn onto the table, and we raise our bottles to three kilted members of a police emerald society who are seated across the way. They are smoking cigarettes and a set of bagpipes is strewn over the table between them.

  Doyle asks Joey how Helen is doing, and Maureen jumps in with a story about her feisty mother-in-law. On a recent Sunday morning, Helen McCain got dressed in her nicest outfit and headed out to church only to discover that a vandal had “keyed” the side of her car. Several deep gouges ran the length of the door panel, and Maureen raced outside when she heard the angry shouts of her mother-in-law.

  “Look what this bastard did to my car,” said Helen, shaking her cane at the damage.

  Maureen patted Helen on the shoulder. “Maybe you should go pray for him, Ma,” she said.

  “Yeah, I'll pray for him,” said Helen, climbing into the car. “Pray that his fucking arm falls off.”

  Doyle laughs so hard at this story that he shuts his eyes and his face turns a deep crimson while his eyelids go white. We're all laughing and pounding our beer bottles on the tabletop, and Donahue says to Doyle, “Hey, Joe. Tell us the quintessential Joe McCain story.”

  The laughter dies away, although an occasional titter erupts here and there. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, Doyle pauses to straighten out his cuffs and then gazes at us with that jury box stare. “The quintessential Joe McCain story,” he says. “All right. Let me think for a minute.”

  There are hundreds to pick from. But after swallowing a mouthful of beer, Doyle replaces the bottle on his coaster and raises a forefinger. “I've got it,” he says.

  It was after Joe had retired and was spending part of every year at the McCains' condo in Deerfield Beach, Florida. One January morning he had to catch a 7:00 A.M. flight out of Logan Airport and rose at five to let his dog, Jack, out of the house. At the same time that Joe Jr. ran downstairs to start his father's car, a series of high-pitched noises arose from the backyard, what sounded like a woman being attacked.

  Rushing halfway up the driveway, Joey caught a glimpse of Jack, shaking his head to and fro with another, smaller animal caught between his jaws. It was a skunk and Joe Jr. sprinted in the other direction just as his father burst into the backyard shouting, “Jack, Jack, no,” and the sharp, sudden stink of the skunk penetrated the morning air.

  Jack dropped the skunk and bolted halfway around the house, leaped onto the front porch and shot into the foyer. Roused from sleep, Maureen was descending the stairs when she head big Joe say, “Let the dog in. He might be hurt. Let him in.”

  Just then the smell reached Maureen, and she slammed the door in Jack's face and locked it. No way was she letting Jack inside their apartment after he'd been doused with skunk spray.

  Big Joe coaxed the dog out of the foyer and up the driveway and in the back door. The skunk had crawled off beneath the porch to die. After shooing Jack into the pantry, Joe glanced up at the clock— he had about twenty minutes to clean up and catch his flight. He called for a taxi, jumped in the shower, and had changed his clothes just as the cab pulled up in front of the house.

  Grabbing his suitcase by the front door, Joe thundered down the stairs and climbed into the taxi, instructing the driver to head for Logan. “Can you smell anything?” asked Joe.

  “No,” the cabbie said.

  Fifty feet down the road, the driver leaned over and opened both windows. “Now that you mention it . . .”

  Joe arrived at his terminal in the frozen semidarkness and hailed a state trooper he knew. As they walked toward the gate, out of the corner of his eye Joe noticed the trooper sniffing the air. And some of the folks passing by were stopping short and asking each other, “What's that smell?”

  Big Joe hurried on.

  When he arrived at the gate, he learned the plane was full and ready to depart. Joe McCain was the last passenger onboard, and as he squeezed his bulk down the aisle and located his seat in the back of the plane, a flight attendant asked no one in particular “What is that smell?”

  “It's me,” said Joe.

  The woman laughed, thinking that he was kidding, and went up the aisle looking for the source of her complaint. The plane was loaded with sunbirds, and Joe's assigned seat was next to a guy who must have weighed four hundred pounds, his fat spilling over the armrests. A large man himself, Joe wedged himself in beside the man and reached up to unscrew the little valve that controlled the overhead fan, thinking it might help dispel the odor.

  But he only managed to spread the smell throughout the plane, and moments later passengers up both sides of the aisle were looking around and expressing their intense displeasure. Joe raised his eyebrows toward the fat man sitting beside him and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “Who knew?”

  Our laughter rings out across Harry's Bar, and I'm so taken with Joe Doyle's story that I fall off my chair and Donahue bats me over the head with the popcorn bowl. “That was Joe,” says Doyle. “The bull in the china shop.”

  The waiter tells us that it's time to go. As we rise from our chairs, the kilted bagpiper notices Joe Jr.'s survivor's tag and they start talking while the other revelers begin making for the exits. Joey tells the piper that he plays drums in the Boston Gaelic Column and that his father has been enshrined on the memorial today.

  “Can I play something for you?” the piper asks.

  Sure, says Joey.

  The gray-haired cop stubs out his cigarette and takes up the bagpipes. He tucks the bag under his arm, moistens the tip of the blowstick and spreads the drone pipes across his left shoulder. As soon as the piper inflates his bag and utters the first note, cops who had been heading for the door pull an about-face, grope on tabletops for that last, abandoned beer, and then crowd around with their glasses raised.

  The wail of the bagpipes fills the bar to the rafters as the piper hits the grace notes segueing from “The Wild Colonial Boy” to “Amazing Grace.” His tone goes lower, the pipes somewhat quieter, and it occurs to me that a piece of Joe McCain has been left on the lawn of the U.S. Capitol, and a part of him will forever reside in Judiciary Square, but the lion's share of the man can be found here, in the late night stench of Harry's Bar. I glance around at the people who loved him— Joey and Maureen, Mark, Joe Doyle and his young daughter— all transfixed by the music, their expressions a mingling of amusement and regret as they praise the great warrior and lament his passing.

  The saga of Joe McCain reminds me that, now more than ever, we need heroes. We're just looking for them in the wrong places. If you're searching for a man or a woman made from the stuff they used in World War II, or at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea, or out on the paddies of Vietnam— if it's the genuine article you're after— forget about Major League Baseball or the local cinema. Ballparks and movie theaters produce entertainers, not heroes. So if you're stuck for a name, pick up the Quincy phone book and give Joe Doyle a call. He'll give you the address of a little park in Washington, D.C., and you can take a walk through. If you really want heroes and you've got the time to go looking, you'll certainly find some in there.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHEN I BEGAN working on this project and was searching for a way to take hold of Joe McCain's saga, I received a letter from a woman named Marcy Richardson, who worked for my late father, Jim Atkinson, in the 1970s and 1980s. Her memories of my dad, who ran a small insurance agency here in our hometown, were vivid: “Every May first, your very distinguished father would arrive at the office in his perfectly groomed suit and tie (he reminded me of Mr. French on the original Family Affair) and announce, ‘Hooray, hooray, the first of May, outdoor screwing starts today.' He loved children, loved life, and loved good food. I have many stories to share about your dad, but here's just one. It's 4:30 on a Friday and the office is winding down for the weekend. My husband, Mike, plans to pick me up at 5:00 so we can head into Boston for a wedding. I have brought my formal dress with me so I can dress at work and save time. I unzip the garment bag and remove the dress. As I give it the ‘once-o
ver' before putting it on, I am horrified. I never hemmed the dress. The bottom is jagged and crooked and I am freaking out. It's 4:40 P.M. and I am wearing the dress, standing on my desk, and your father is stapling the hem of the dress as I slowly turn. . . .

  “Back then, the cast of characters included Mike the Italian cop, who stopped to flirt with Louise Carney; Gerry the Irish cop, who shared the local news with your dad; Dick— I can't remember his last name— owned a lot of commercial and residential real estate in the area. He never made a move without consulting your dad. Smith Williams was a retired attorney in his seventies who dressed like Mark Twain, was well read, and had traveled the world and enjoyed eating snake meat. He would tip his hat when he arrived and left. Your uncle John, who your father adored, visited often. Jim saw him as the ‘swinging bachelor,' and your father's face would just beam when John stopped by. One of your father's clients, a man named Roger, was arrested for killing his girlfriend. He was hauled off to jail and allowed one phone call. He called your father and canceled his auto insurance. Shorty DeGaspe (who was a town worker with a few missing fingers and the shortest man I've ever seen) always checked in during rain and snow— I think he had something to do with cleaning out the storm drains— and your father always treated him with great respect. From your dad, I learned a lot from this seemingly simple gesture. There is nobility in all work and always acknowledge a job well done. . . .”

  When I was a kid, I knew people looked up to my dad, and when we walked down the street together, I felt like a king. Reading Marcy Richardson's letter, it occurred to me that by writing about big Joe McCain, I was also paying homage to my own father and my mother, Lois, as well as an entire generation, reared during the Depression, that perceived duty and sacrifice and integrity as facets of the human condition and lived up to those responsibilities with a sense of humor and personal style. These Americans knew how to live, and we owe them all a great debt.