Devil's Night by Ze'ev Chafets Page B

ended with Francisco’s earnest assurance that he and his men were working on the case. But despite the pressure, he wasn’t at all sure that they could deliver. It was, after all, a random killing with no motive and no witnesses. “We’ll probably never solve the motherfucker,” said Francisco of Morality, cheerfully.
    Jim Francisco is a man who loves his work, which is chasing bad guys through some of the most dangerous streets in America. “Working here is like playing cowboys and Indians with real Indians,” he told me.
    It was a Francisco thing to say, tough and funny and tinged with bravado. He exudes competence and courage, the kind of cop that other cops refer to as a “legend in his own time,” and his exploits provide a seemingly endless supply of station house anecdotes. In the Highland Park police station, which resembles a fortress, and on the streets of the tiny town, which is often compared by its residents to a battlefield, Jim Francisco is the perfect platoon commander.
    A few days after the Wilson murder, Francisco got a break: an informer turned in the name and address of the killer. The cops decided to raid his home, which was in Detroit, less than a mile from the police station. On a Friday afternoon, Francisco gathered his troops—a dozen officers, six white, six black, each outfitted in assault overalls, combat boots, bulletproof vests and riot helmets, armed with a variety of very powerful weapons.
    Officer Larry Robinson was not dressed for the occasion. A stoic black veteran, he wore a civil-service-blue short-sleeve shirt and black slacks. Robinson looked at eager young cops and sighed. “I’m near retirement and I don’t really like to do this anymore,” he said. “But I’ve gotta think about the rookies, help them save
their
ass. And I’ll tell you something else. I’ve done this before, plenty of times, but when I hit the corner and pull out my gun, it’s no longer routine. The adrenaline flows, I guarantee you that.”
    Although the raid was scheduled for 2:00 P.M. , it was postponed again and again. At a desk, a young officer pecked at a typewriter with leaden fingers. The tension in the room rose and fell as deadlines neared and were deferred. Because the suspect’s home was in Detroit, the city police had to be involved, and there were problems coordinating the raid. Finally Robinson picked up the phone impatiently. “Okay,” he said, “I’m gonna call the thirteenth precinct, get me some menfolks and we gonna bust.”
    Apparently the call worked, because within a few minutes the Highland Park strike force was gathered in the parking lot, making last-minute checks of their weapons. The plan was simple. They would surround the house, and Francisco would lead a group of officers through the front door. They had no idea what to expect once they got inside, nor did they know how many guns they were likely to encounter. The uncertainty led to some gallows humor as the cops crowded into two vans. Francisco, who wanted to drive by the house before going in, sped on ahead.
    Half a mile from the station house, on Woodward Avenue, the vans came to a screeching halt. Three black men were spread-eagled, facedown, on the pavement, and Francisco stood over them with a gun. The other cops leaped out and drew their guns, too.
    â€œWhat’s your name, sir?” Francisco drawled, addressing one of the prone men.
    â€œLucky,” he said.
    â€œWell, Mr. Lucky, you got some ID?” The man handed Francisco his wallet. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “And you other gentlemen,please bear with us.” If there was irony in the remark, it wasn’t apparent from his courteous tone.
    Francisco had stopped their car on instinct—he thought one of them might be their man—but their IDs checked out. The three suspects rose and dusted themselves off. Although police vans blocked two