his name. “You the people from the Twentieth?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Commissioner sent me out here to let you know.”
Donna saw the look on his face, and cried out, “Oh, my God.”
The inspector hesitated a moment, and then said, “Steve Ryder has just died.”
In my mind, I saw Michelle’s hand on Steve’s head, trying to hold in the blood, trying to hold in the life. She couldn’t do it. No one could.
Donna and Marisol started crying first, then some of the guys. No one said anything. Ever since Steve got shot, we were moving too fast to feel anything. But now we all just stood there, wiping the tears away.
W hen I got home that night, I sat on the couch in my darkened living room and had a beer, then another, then another. But I knew that no matter how much I drank, it wouldn’t be enough.
I still lived in the small row house Patricia and I had bought years ago. She moved out after the divorce, and I was glad to be able to stay there. It was in Oxford Circle, a peaceful neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia that had at least a couple of cops living on every block.
Of course, we all knew each other. We had backyard barbecues in the summer, and on Sunday afternoons in the fall we’d all get together to watch the Eagles on TV until it was time for the guys on four-to-midnight to head into work.
If you ever needed help—shoveling your car out of the snow or putting up a new rain gutter—there was always someone around. It didn’t matter that they worked in different districts, or that this one was a patrolman and that one a lieutenant. You were among people who understood you, understood the life of a cop.
Sitting there in my living room, I wondered whether I really wanted that life anymore. How could it be worth it, when you had to watch your friends die?
FOUR
T he day after a cop is killed is always the worst. You stand there at roll call and see that someone’s missing, and you realize he’ll never be there again. You don’t feel like going back out onto the street, but you know you have to, that’s your job.
At least there was one good thing about coming into work—we could talk to each other about Steve, trade stories about him. Buster said, Remember that night Steve found a big toy stuffed lion in a Dumpster, and stuck it in the back of a wagon? Whenever we’d open the back doors to put prisoners in, they’d scream in terror. That was classic Steve.
Like most district headquarters, ours was pretty cramped, and we had to hold our roll calls in a dimly lit, green-tiled room that doubled as a municipal courtroom. In the front of the room, two steps up, was an old judge’s bench and an American flag on a wooden pole. Sometimes at roll call the captain or one of the lieutenants would stand up there and address the troops, but I usually just stood in front of the guys at ground level. It seemed a lot less trouble.
Shortly after 4 p.m ., the twenty-eight men and women in my squad assembled for roll call. No one bothered to line up in rows, the way you’re supposed to. People were pretty much standing around in groups of two or three, with their friends.
I didn’t feel like talking, so I just told everyone to stay sharp going in on disturbances, which is what we called domestic disputes, and on man-with-a-gun calls, and any other time we rolled in on something that might suddenly turn deadly. I said we shouldn’t get so caught up in what had happened to Steve that we’d be putting our own lives in danger.
They were all very quiet. Donna was still crying a little, and Buster’s smile was gone, he looked heartbroken. Nick kept his eyes on the ground, I don’t think he once looked up. I had called him at home that morning, and told him he didn’t have to come into work. He showed up anyway.
I dismissed the squad, and they filed into the operations room to get their portable radios from the bank of chargers on the wall. They talked among themselves a little and then
“Yeah,” I said.
“Commissioner sent me out here to let you know.”
Donna saw the look on his face, and cried out, “Oh, my God.”
The inspector hesitated a moment, and then said, “Steve Ryder has just died.”
In my mind, I saw Michelle’s hand on Steve’s head, trying to hold in the blood, trying to hold in the life. She couldn’t do it. No one could.
Donna and Marisol started crying first, then some of the guys. No one said anything. Ever since Steve got shot, we were moving too fast to feel anything. But now we all just stood there, wiping the tears away.
W hen I got home that night, I sat on the couch in my darkened living room and had a beer, then another, then another. But I knew that no matter how much I drank, it wouldn’t be enough.
I still lived in the small row house Patricia and I had bought years ago. She moved out after the divorce, and I was glad to be able to stay there. It was in Oxford Circle, a peaceful neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia that had at least a couple of cops living on every block.
Of course, we all knew each other. We had backyard barbecues in the summer, and on Sunday afternoons in the fall we’d all get together to watch the Eagles on TV until it was time for the guys on four-to-midnight to head into work.
If you ever needed help—shoveling your car out of the snow or putting up a new rain gutter—there was always someone around. It didn’t matter that they worked in different districts, or that this one was a patrolman and that one a lieutenant. You were among people who understood you, understood the life of a cop.
Sitting there in my living room, I wondered whether I really wanted that life anymore. How could it be worth it, when you had to watch your friends die?
FOUR
T he day after a cop is killed is always the worst. You stand there at roll call and see that someone’s missing, and you realize he’ll never be there again. You don’t feel like going back out onto the street, but you know you have to, that’s your job.
At least there was one good thing about coming into work—we could talk to each other about Steve, trade stories about him. Buster said, Remember that night Steve found a big toy stuffed lion in a Dumpster, and stuck it in the back of a wagon? Whenever we’d open the back doors to put prisoners in, they’d scream in terror. That was classic Steve.
Like most district headquarters, ours was pretty cramped, and we had to hold our roll calls in a dimly lit, green-tiled room that doubled as a municipal courtroom. In the front of the room, two steps up, was an old judge’s bench and an American flag on a wooden pole. Sometimes at roll call the captain or one of the lieutenants would stand up there and address the troops, but I usually just stood in front of the guys at ground level. It seemed a lot less trouble.
Shortly after 4 p.m ., the twenty-eight men and women in my squad assembled for roll call. No one bothered to line up in rows, the way you’re supposed to. People were pretty much standing around in groups of two or three, with their friends.
I didn’t feel like talking, so I just told everyone to stay sharp going in on disturbances, which is what we called domestic disputes, and on man-with-a-gun calls, and any other time we rolled in on something that might suddenly turn deadly. I said we shouldn’t get so caught up in what had happened to Steve that we’d be putting our own lives in danger.
They were all very quiet. Donna was still crying a little, and Buster’s smile was gone, he looked heartbroken. Nick kept his eyes on the ground, I don’t think he once looked up. I had called him at home that morning, and told him he didn’t have to come into work. He showed up anyway.
I dismissed the squad, and they filed into the operations room to get their portable radios from the bank of chargers on the wall. They talked among themselves a little and then
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