Milwaukee Noir

by Tim Hennessy

  “Great fishing up there, man. You should go up some time.”

  “They let me out of this circus long enough, I will.”

  “You training another newbie?”

  “Rory, this is Probationary Officer Miller. He served in the army like you did.”

  “Glad to have you, kid,” the driver said.

  * * *

  Monday, 1414 hrs: 4974 / 0853 / 202 / S-27

  Probie and I were at the front of the bus on the southbound route twenty-seven, stopped at a red light.

  “Don’t look at the map,” I said, “and tell me how we got here.”

  “Um,” Probie stammered, “route twenty-three all the way up to route eighty at, where was it, Villard? Then eighty to route twenty-seven.”

  “You know where you are now?”

  “Twenty-seventh and Atkinson.”

  “This is the Hot Spot,” I said. “Know why they call it that?”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the name of that liquor store across the street there. Also, this is where most of the shootings happen. The greatest concentration of it is right here, within a few blocks’ radius. And for a couple months this summer, we had the highest per capita murder rate in the country. Even beat out Baltimore and Chicago.”

  “Damn.”

  “Don’t get off the bus here after dark. Not if you don’t have to. Just pass through.”

  “Ten four.”

  The light turned green, and the bus went through the intersection and pulled up to the bus shelter directly across the street from the liquor store. The driver opened the doors and let about a dozen people off. Black male, late teens, got on the bus, holding an open beer can.

  “Nope,” I said, stepping in front of him before he could walk up the aisle. “You know you can’t bring that on.”

  “Man, what I do?” the kid said. “I ain’t do shit.”

  “Can’t bring open alcohol on the bus,” I said. “Either dump it outside or wait for the next bus.”

  “Why you gotta be like that, man? This some racist bullshit.”

  “Those are the rules,” I said. “County ordinance.”

  “Fuck yo shit,” the kid said, shaking his head. He curled his free hand into a fist. I watched him and waited. Probie watched us both.

  Behind the kid, an older black man came through the door, also carrying an open can of beer. The kid turned and saw him. He moved toward the older man and pointed to go back through the door.

  “Come on, Dad,” the kid said, “we can’t ride.”

  * * *

  At the end of the shift, as we rode back to the fleet building, Probie spoke up: “Why’d they call you professor earlier? The driver, but also somebody in the roll call room did too.”

  “’Cause I used to teach history.”

  “No shit.”

  “For a few years at a community college. Never finished my PhD.”

  “Why not?”

  “Humanities department turned ugly. I got tired of working for the propaganda wing of the Communist Party.”

  “Think you’re overstating it, maybe?”

  “Not really. The sad thing about paying attention to history is you know what’s going to happen, and you’re powerless to stop it.”

  * * *

  Tuesday, 1625 hrs: 5478 / 0683 / 139 / S-57

  Black kid in his late teens got on the bus right as we turned onto Water Street. As he walked past Probie in the front, I saw the kid was talking to himself and shaking his head. With wild, unfocused eyes, he looked around the inside of the bus. He covered his mouth with both of his hands. Moved his hands away and waggled his fingers. He walked past me where I stood by the back door. He paced up and down the aisle, talking to himself.

  “Bitch, I told you,” he said. “Better listen. I told you. How come I gotta keep saying this shit.”

  Probie looked at me. I shook my head no.

  “Bitch, I ain’t talking to you no more,” the kid muttered. He turned and stared at me for a second as he paced the aisle. “Ain’t gotta be like that. Don’t wanna kill nobody.”

  The kid went into the back area of the bus and kept pacing and talking. Probie moved down to my door.

  “What do you want to do about it?” Probie asked.

  “Wait,” I said. “We provoke him, and it’s a whole other world of trouble. Wait and see if he gets off by himself.”

  “He’s scaring people.”

  “They know we’re here. And it’s better for everyone if he gets off the bus himself.”

  The kid kept pacing. He slapped himself once, then twice. “Motherfuckers always watching me.”

  “Try not to look directly at him,” I said to Probie. “Go back to your post in the front.”

  “Motherfuckers always wanting something.”

  The kid sat down two rows from where I stood. He rocked back and forth. Slapped himself a few more times. Then the bus came to a stop at Wisconsin Avenue.

  “Ain’t doing this shit no more,” the kid said, standing up. He walked to the back exit where I stood. I moved aside from the exit.

  “Y’all motherfuckers can burn in hell,” the kid said as he opened the back door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Jesus ain’t gonna save none of you.”

  The door closed and the bus moved forward, crossing Wisconsin Avenue. We waited one more stop and got off the bus too.

  “Should we have done something?” Probie asked.

  “We could have called the police,” I said. “But what do you think he would’ve done if he’d heard us call the police?”

  “Run?”

  “That or freak out. Get violent. Then we’ve got a real problem on our hands.”

  “But he needed help.”

  “Sure he did. Like half of Milwaukee. Is this the first EDP you’ve seen up close?”

  “Here, yes.”

  “Emotionally disturbed persons are a dime a dozen. Plain fact is that a lot of mental illness goes untreated here. People fall through the cracks more often in this city than others.”

  “Well, that sucks,” Probie said.

  We walked up to the stop for the westbound route twelve.

  * * *

  Tuesday, 1655 hrs: 5210 / 1055 / 251 / W-12

  The Downtown Transit Center was quiet. Our bus idled in the parking area while Probie and I took advantage of the layover to use the bathroom. Probie looked sick when he walked out.

  “The smell?” I asked.

  “I saw blood on the floor of the stall.”

  “You didn’t use the stall, did you?”

  “No, but I could see the blood just from standing at the urinal next to it.”

  I walked into the bathroom and looked around. Sure enough, there was blood visible under the stall. It was only a small spatter, and brown. I nudged the stall door open with my boot. It was empty.

  “Somebody shot up in here,” I said to Probie, “then squirted the hypo on the floor. Blood’s dried, so he’s probably long gone.”

  “Should we report it?”

  “What would that accomplish? They’re not gonna clean it more often. I can’t think of a public property in Milwaukee that isn’t a biohazard. Hence, we carry gloves.”

  Our radios squawked, “Northside Transit officers. Passenger harassing an operator. Bus fifty-two twenty, operator four three nine, run one twenty-three, southbound thirty on Sherman at Hampton. Report said the suspect was a very large black male wearing headphones. Driver said you guys knew who it was.”

  “Shit. Deshawn’s out on the town tonight.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Our favorite person. Mentally unstable, six-foot-five, four hundred pounds, and loves to fight.”

  “Damn.”

  “You know it’s about 2 percent of the population that’s immune to pepper spray, right? Of course Deshawn would fall into that category too.”

  “So what are you supposed to do?”

  “Not get in a fight with him.”

  “How can he
just keep doing this? Don’t the charges add up for him?”

  “He’s in an outpatient mental health treatment program. Keeps him out of jail as long as Milwaukee doesn’t press charges that are too serious. And he knows exactly where that line is too. Most of the time he keeps on the safe side of that line.”

  “So he just wanders around looking to beat people up for fun? And nothing we can do?”

  “We can do our job, but we can’t expect help,” I said. “Oh, hey, that reminds me, how long did the driver say his layover was? Let’s do a quick building check.”

  * * *

  Ronnie, a white male, about thirty, was asleep in the stairwell.

  “Wake up, Ronnie,” I said. He didn’t respond, so I repeated myself a few times. Then nudged his leg with my boot.

  “Lemme sleep, man,” Ronnie said.

  I told Probie, “Take a picture of him like this for our report.” I put on my gloves while Probie focused the camera on the company phone. I picked up the bottle on the stair next to him.

  “That wine?” Probie asked.

  “Cooking wine,” I said.

  “Naw, man, that’s sherry,” Ronnie said, not moving to get up.

  “You know how this goes,” I said. “You can get up and walk, or we can get you up and carry you out. If we have to carry you, we call MPD. Think on which way you’d rather it go.”

  “I’ll get up,” Ronnie said. “Jesus, you fucks. Can’t you just let a guy sleep?”

  “There’s other places to sleep besides here.”

  Probie and I waited while Ronnie sat up, pulled himself with the rail to a standing position, and walked down to the stairwell exit.

  “We find him in here about once or twice a week,” I said.

  “Can’t he stay in the shelter? There’s one just up the street.”

  “Can’t drink in the shelter.”

  * * *

  Wednesday, 1251 hrs: 4995 / 0656 / 250 / N-Blue Line

  Sondra, a black female in her sixties, got on the bus with her pull cart full of groceries. Probie and I were in the Transit vehicle, taking calls. Dispatch said it was a passenger harassing another passenger. When we got on the bus, I saw right away what had happened.

  “Get away from me!” the passenger, a black woman in her thirties, yelled.

  “Get away from me!” Sondra yelled back. “Lord Jesus bless you!”

  “Just stay over there!” the passenger said. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Bless you, bless you, just stay over there!” Sondra said, patting the woman on the shoulder. “Don’t touch me, Lord Jesus!”

  “Quit it, you crazy bitch!”

  “Quit it, you crazy bitch, uh-oh, oh-no, God bless you, Jesus bless you!”

  Sondra had some kind of dementia. She liked to say blessings for people. But she often couldn’t remember how to say them. So a lot of the time she just repeated what the other person was saying.

  “Hey, Sondra,” I said. “How’ve you been?”

  “God bless you, boy,” she said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Come on over here and sit with me,” I said. “Tell me about your church.”

  Sondra stepped back from the angry woman, looked at me, shook her head, and then followed me to the back of the bus with her pull cart in tow. I sat on the bench facing the door in the back. She sat down next to me.

  I stood up and told her I’d be right back.

  “We’re gonna do a ride-along,” I said to Probie. “That means I sit with her and keep her quiet while you follow the bus in the vehicle until she decides to get off. Should be just a few minutes since she lives close by. Go tell the driver what we’re doing.”

  Probie nodded and took the keys from me.

  “Ain’t you even gonna kick her off?” the angry woman yelled.

  “No need, ma’am,” I said. “We’ll stay back here and keep quiet. Won’t be a bother anymore.”

  “Better not be,” the woman said. “Crazy-ass bitch.”

  I looked back at Sondra, and the bus started moving again.

  “So, they have a new garden out behind your church,” I said.

  “Oh yes, yes, God bless you,” she said. “There’s a new garden. And peppers and tomatoes and onions and beans and corn.”

  “That’s really nice,” I said. “And can anybody pick from it?”

  “Jesus bless you, Lord bless you, and anybody can pick the vegetables from the garden. And lettuce and squash and zucchini. The church tends the garden and anybody who needs to can pick from it. Jesus bless you.”

  “I really like that idea,” I said. “I should tell my pastor about it.”

  “Tell the pastor,” she said. “Professor. I know you. Lord Jesus bless you. You the professor. I know you, and Jesus know you.”

  “I know you too, Sondra,” I said.

  After a few blocks, Sondra took her pull cart and got off the bus. I thanked the driver and passengers for their patience and got back in the vehicle with Probie.

  “Getting her to talk about her church’s garden works,” I said to Probie.

  “Which church?” he asked.

  “The one she’s thinking of, according to some of our other Transit officers, the pastor was murdered fifteen years ago. Congregation scattered. Building’s burnt out now. But she remembers the garden.”

  * * *

  Wednesday, 1525 hrs: 5602 / 0925 / 221 / S-57

  Bus fifty-six oh two waited for us on the corner of Water and Wisconsin. We boarded and spoke with the driver.

  “Dude in the back wearing camo,” the driver said. “Saying weird shit, got people nervous.”

  I looked in the back of the bus and saw him immediately. Black male, looked tall in his seat, built, shaved head, camo T-shirt stretched tight over a ballistic vest. His eyes were darting around, trying not to make contact.

  He stood up in the aisle and sprinted to the back door, tried to shove through, but the door was locked. He began kicking it with his black combat boots, yelling, “Driver, back door! Back door, driver! Back door now, driver! Now, now, now! Back door, back door, back door!”

  I nodded to the driver, and he released the back door. The man stepped off the bus and walked quickly down the sidewalk to the intersection. Probie and I went back to the vehicle and waited for the bus to move away.

  “Let’s watch him for a minute,” I said.

  “What for?” Probie asked.

  “See if he gets on another bus.”

  We watched him cross Wisconsin and walk south on Water Street. When he was about halfway past the bank, I pulled into traffic.

  We followed him to Water and Michigan. He turned and saw the Transit vehicle, crossed Water Street through traffic, and waited for the light. Then he crossed Michigan, looking over his shoulder every few seconds. He kept glancing around until Clybourn, where we lost track of him.

  “Where’d he go?” Probie asked.

  “Probably one of the bars there. Gonna wait us out.”

  We watched that side of the street for a minute, then pulled away and stopped at the light on Clybourn.

  “There he is,” I said. He was half a block east, crossing through traffic, still heading south. He’d just gone into a bar and cut through an alley.

  Probie and I watched as the man pulled a small handgun from his waistband behind his back, tossed it into a storm drain, and kept moving.

  “Jesus,” Probie said. “You see that?”

  We were parallel with the man when he walked into the Milwaukee Public Market. I started driving us back to the Transit fleet building.

  * * *

  As I drove us back to fleet, the radio squawked, “Northside Transit officers. Black male harassing other passengers. Driver says it’s you-know-who.”

  “We’re not going to that?” Probie asked.

  “Others are closer. And we have a report to write,” I said. “Firearm takes precedent.”

  * * *

  “We should have guns,” Probie said to the supervisor. I sat at
the computer on the east wall of the roll call room, typing our report. Probie seemed shaken after seeing the gun.

  “We don’t decide that,” the supervisor said. “The client wants us unarmed.”

  “But it’s not safe. Some of them carry guns.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you on that. But we have to do the job the way the client wants.”

  “So has anybody talked to the client about it?”

  “You’re more than welcome to write a memo.”

  “Sure,” Probie said, “I could do that.”

  “I’ll deliver it for you when you’re done. But you could save time if you just put it in the box.”

  “Where’s the box?” Probie asked.

  The supervisor pointed to the trash can by the computer. Atop it was a paper shredder. The trash can was labeled, Transit Complaint Box.

  “If I take it to the client, or if you put it in the box,” the supervisor said, “the results will be the same.”

  * * *

  Thursday, 0941 hrs: 5023 / 0767 / 132 / S-27

  “Bitch stole my phone!” the old black man yelled in through the door to the bus. The woman who had just gotten on was thin, smelled bad, scratched at bugs that weren’t there, and was eating a breakfast sandwich. Leticia was a regular.

  Leticia stood back from the front entrance, chewing, peering at the man outside. He looked at Probie and me and stepped back from the door.

  “Bitch stole my phone!” he yelled again, pointing at her. The driver covered his mouth so he wouldn’t laugh.

  “Shut up, you stupid old motherfucker,” Leticia said, still eating her breakfast sandwich. She turned and began asking passengers for money for her bus fare, one after another down the aisle.

  “You nasty bitch!” the man yelled. “She’s a damn prostitute! She stole my fucking phone!”

  “Shut the door,” I said to the driver.

  “This is too good, man,” the driver said.

  “We don’t want him to board like this, and we can’t kick her off with him right there.”

  “Spoilsport,” the driver said, laughing.

  “Get her!” the man yelled. “That nasty hooker stole my phone!”

  “Sucked your dick, didn’t I!” Leticia shouted, spitting bits of the sandwich.

  The driver shut the door, and Leticia resumed asking passengers for money.

  “Nope,” I said. “None of that. Yours is the next stop.”