Homicide (103 page)

Donald Worden, a sage among murder police, is fond of pointing to the massive binder that is the Baltimore City Police Department’s Code of Conduct and declaring: “If they want you, they got you.”

The department wanted Edgerton, having tired of his indifference to chain of command and his willful disregard of anything other than casework. He was convinced, before any trial board could convene, to wait out his twenty-year anniversary and then retire with his pension intact. He now does security work with several companies.

Edgerton’s partner in the Latonya Wallace case, Tom Pellegrini, continued to pick at the dead girl’s case for years afterward, but to little avail. He finally visited the Fish Man one last time and encouraged his best suspect to write down on a slip of paper whether he was guilty or innocent, then hide the document.

“That way, if you ever die,” Pellegrini explained, “I’ll find the paper and at least I’ll know.”

When the Fish Man did indeed depart this vale, several years ago, no such document was recovered from his effects. Sometimes the magic works, sometimes not.

After retiring from the Baltimore department, Pellegrini did a tour of duty with the United Nations in Kosovo, teaching death investigation to fledgling detectives there. He currently operates a private investigation firm in Maryland.

Among others, Gary Dunnigan is now an insurance investigator. Downtown Eddie Brown went to work security for the Baltimore Ravens, as did Bertina Silver of Stanton’s shift. Rick “The Bunk” Requer left to man the department’s retirement services bureau, though his homicide incarnation lives on in Wendell Pierce’s portrayal of the legendary Bunk Moreland on
The Wire
, right down to the ubiquitous cigar. The remaining detectives of D’Addario’s shift—Donald Kincaid, Bob Bowman and David John Brown—have retired as well, though Dave Brown went out in a frustrating way, having sustaining a severe leg injury during the search of a vacant house.

Danny Shea died of cancer in 1991. I didn’t follow him on many cases, as he was a veteran of Stanton’s shift, but I have the distinct memory of standing with him at the most natural of deaths, in a Charles Village apartment where an elderly piano teacher expired in bed with her radio playing softly.

Ravel’s “Pavanne for a Dead Princess” was broadcast at that moment, and Shea, being a man of deep and varied knowledge, knew this as I did not.

“A quiet, perfect death,” he said, nodding at the cadaver and granting me a moment I always remember when thinking about Danny Shea.

Donald Waltemeyer, too, died of cancer last year, having retired from Baltimore city to become an investigator with the Aberdeen Police Department in northeast Maryland.

When McLarney and the other members of his old squad got together with Aberdeen veterans at the wake, they quickly realized that Digger Waltemeyer had managed to infuriate and endear himself to both departments in exactly the same manner. At the funeral, men in different dress uniforms assured each other that they were privileged to know and work with both a consummate investigator and a renowned pain in the ass.

Meanwhile, the police intern from that long-ago year is still at large, his whereabouts subject to rumor and the crude conjecture of certain unit veterans. He is seen occasionally on Baltimore film sets and glimpsed in cluttered production offices and writing rooms. Sometimes, he attends the Baltimore homicide reunions out in Parkville, where retired detectives never fail to talk the same shit and ask, with a wink and nod, when NBC is gonna get those bigass checks in the mail.

No comment to that. But the intern and his credit card stand ready, knowing that for many reasons, if not for his entire career, he owes these guys—every last one of them—more than a few rounds.

D
AVID
S
IMON
Baltimore
May 2006

In the decade and a half since David Simon finished writing this book he has transformed himself from a T-shirt wearing, wet-behind-his diamondstudded-ear, notebook-toting journalist of questionable prowess into an award-winning author, acclaimed screenwriter and accomplished television producer. During that same fifteen years, I have advanced exactly one rank.

The years passed by and I had not seen much of Dave, save for a couple homicide reunions and the retirement parties of Gary D’Addario and Eugene Cassidy. Then one day my son called from North Carolina, “Dad, there is a show on HBO all about your police department.” I replied that I was familiar with
The Wire
and asked Brian whether he actually watched the show. His response seemed almost reverential, “Dad, everyone in the Marine Corps watches
The Wire
.”

Simon had done it again.

Back in 1988, when a confused command staff allowed Dave to spend a year with us, my cronies and I smirked and played with him like infants who had found a new toy in their cribs. To our delight, Dave, a youthful teetotaler, would get noticeably intoxicated after only a few measly beers. He would join us after work, perhaps hoping to glimpse homicide’s Holy Grail, but eventually he realized that we merely wanted to marvel at the spectacle of someone getting drunk on three little cans of liquid.

Dave took the good-natured ribbing and soon was operating unnoticed in our midst. He became the proverbial roach on the wall, soaking it all in while we were too busy fending off murders to calculate our behavior in his presence. At first we were wary of what transpired in front of Dave. We would check ourselves, our language, even our methodology. But, after a time, we were too busy to care; the busier we got, the more he scribbled. Though we allowed him to be present during routine
interviews, legal concerns sometimes precluded his being physically in the room for certain interrogations. Back then we didn’t have the viewing portals and microphones now common in every police department’s interview rooms. We learned to open the door slowly, to avoid smashing Dave in the face. He would listen through cracks in the door frame, and he had excellent hearing, judging by how accurately he would later chronicle entire interrogations. When
Homicide: A Year on the Killing
Streets
came out, we were gratified by how clearly Dave had captured the controlled chaos that permeates every urban homicide unit: the roller-coaster tempo of some investigations, the frustrations, the triumphs, the steady stream of unfathomable violence.

The now-sobered command staff reacted to the groundbreaking work by inquiring of the department’s legal adviser whether we could be charged with conduct unbecoming an officer. Cooler heads prevailed and no charges were brought, though many of us watched our performance evaluations drop like lead weights in a polluted pond. But then came the NBC series based on the book and Dave’s time with us was seen in a more positive, Hollywood-enhanced light.

We police are obsessed with describing our fellow man: Hispanic male, black male, white male, everyone categorically defined. We sit on the witness stand and say, “The black male entered through the front door, then the black male exited through the rear door,” as if the black male would suddenly morph into a white or purple male if we didn’t keep a close eye on things. With that acknowledged limitation, here is how I remember David Simon, as he was fifteen years ago.

He was a white guy. When he first showed up you knew, from just one glance, that no one would ever, ever, ask to substitute his urine for theirs. Though he claimed to have been a newspaper reporter before his internship with us, I couldn’t verify that. I didn’t remember seeing him around before, though he might have been around, and I might have looked directly at him but not remembered. He was easy not to notice. Of average height, his physique was not remarkable. Actually, it was not really a physique. There was a body there, to be sure, but it was devoid of things one normally associates with a body, like muscles. Those that did exist were cleverly hidden between bones and flesh. I never understood how a guy could carry a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other, all day long, and not have thicker arms. He had hair then, though of the wispy, not-long-for-this-world variety. It has since departed, revealing a gleaming dome, the closest hair now being eyebrows. Beneath those brows are
eyes of an undetermined color, maybe green or brown. It all comes down to this:

“White male, six foot, 170, bald, poorly dressed, puzzled expression, reeking of beer, tattered notebook in possession, last seen …”

For me, one of the more poignant passages from
Homicide
was Donald Waltemeyer straightening the clothing of an overdosed junkie to make her more presentable just before her husband arrived to identify her remains. Dave called it a “small act of charity” and it was vintage Waltemeyer. I was Donald’s sergeant for a long time and never fully understood him, but I respected him immensely.

Waltemeyer and I traveled twice to a rural corner of Indiana. An arsonist had set a fire there, killing his girlfriend and her two young children. He then made his way to Baltimore, set another fire, got caught, and felt compelled to confess his earlier crime to his transvestite cell mate, who immediately called us. We flew out for the preliminary hearing, but when the actual trial came around, Donald, a noted claustrophobic, argued for a road trip. The pink Cadillac he rented was wine colored, he claimed.

One morning, as we ate in a diner, several locals stopped to ask whether we were the detectives from Baltimore and to thank us. We were happy to be appreciated and Donald, beaming, related his surprise that people knew who we were. As the Cadillac loomed just beyond the plateglass window I reminded Donald that we were in a tiny, conservative town, hanging out with a transvestite and cruising around in a pink Cadillac. He chewed thoughtfully and replied, “I told you, it’s wine colored.”

Donald’s passing saddened us all.

The job has changed some over the past fifteen years. The so-called CSI effect has raised juror expectations to unreasonable levels and become the bane of prosecutors everywhere. There is more witness intimidation, and, not surprisingly, a corresponding reduction in citizen cooperation. Gangs have discovered Baltimore. The drug problem has not abated. There are fewer dunkers and more whodunits. On the positive side, there are epithelial cells. (I love to say that word.) They exploded onto the scene just a few years back, like some wonder drug, spurred by advances in collection methods and the general march of DNA analysis. You can mask your face, wash your hands and throw your gun in the harbor, but you can’t keep your skin from shedding DNA. Yet, in the overall scheme of things, those changes are minor and the job
remains much as it was when captured by David Simon. It is all about crime scenes, interviews, and interrogations, played out against a backdrop of flawed humanity.

It always will be.

T
ERRY
M
C
L
ARNEY
Lieutenant, Homicide
Baltimore
May 2006

David Simon’s Homicide won an Edgar Award and became the basis for the NBC award-winning drama. Simon’s second book,
The
Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood
, co-authored with Edward Burns, was made into an HBO mini-series. Simon is currently the executive producer and writer for HBO’s Peabody Award-winning series
The Wire
. He lives in Baltimore.

‘A frank, insightful, and meticulously detailed look at detectives and their work.’

SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE

‘From the blood on the street to the repartee in the squad room, from autopsy etiquette to office politics, Simon gives us the homicide cop’s beat – monstrous, draining, bleakly fascinating – as it’s never been seen before.’

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

‘One of the most engrossing police procedural mystery books ever written, not only because the crimes and plots and personalities are real, but because Simon is a terrific writer.’

NEWSDAY

‘The world of urban violence has never been so well portrayed, nor has the day-today craft of the detective.’

CHICAGO TRIBUNE

‘Simon has captured the poetry of the meanest streets.’

LOS ANGELES TIMES

‘
Homicide
and its cast of living, swearing, thinking investigators exalt you on one page and knock you down on the next: wonderful victories for justice and humanity, but also heartbreaking unfairness, cruelty and meaninglessness.’

BALTIMORE SUN

‘An amazingly frank and often hilarious tribute to homicide detectives everywhere, whose ranks, like those in Baltimore, are filled with great, good and mediocre talent … [Simon] has taken the art of covering cops to a new high.’

WASHINGTON TIMES

‘With empathy, psychological nuance, racy verbatim dialogue and razor-sharp prose, he offers a rare insider’s look at the detective’s tension-wracked world.’

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood
(co-authored with Edward Burns)

Designed by Meryl Sussman Levavi