Street Warrior by Ralph Friedman

Author:Ralph Friedman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

5

Police Officer Kenneth Mahon

11/30/45–12/28/74 End of Tour

“He died as he lived … a hero.”

—ASSISTANT CHIEF ANTHONY BOUZA, BRONX AREA COMMANDER

I was at home working out and listening to music on the radio when the hourly news came on. A plainclothes police officer was reported shot and killed in the area encompassing the Four-One. That caught my attention. I became still as I stopped what I was doing and waited for more information, but there were no specifics forthcoming.

I’ve learned in my time that initial reports of any tragedy, be it police-involved or otherwise, are generally not strong on accuracy. There were many police officers working in plainclothes in the area: not only Four-One Anti-Crime but also City-Wide Anti-Crime, and the Tactical Patrol Force had some of its cops working out of uniform. As my heart raced and I reached for the phone to call the office, I rationalized how the media could confuse all sorts of characters with a “plainclothes police officer”—the list was endless. I would prefer no law enforcement officer were killed, but I said a silent prayer: let him not be a cop from my unit … please.

Sergeant Battaglia, one of my bosses, picked up. He confirmed that the victim was a cop from Four-One Anti-Crime. But not just any cop …

“It was Kenny, Ralph,” Sergeant Battaglia said quietly. “He’s gone.”

Kenny Mahon was dead? I couldn’t believe it. My head felt as if it took a direct hit from a brick. My mind went totally blank. I couldn’t think, and I felt faint. Battaglia was still talking.

“… perp still on the loose … Get here as fast as you can.”

Regaining my composure, I told him I was on my way. I grabbed my two .38s, a shotgun, and my bulletproof vest. I was in my car in less than a minute.

The next thing I remember is driving like a madman to the Four-One. The roads were deserted given the early hour. I think I made the usual twenty-minute trip in ten, but it could’ve been less.

There were dozens of marked and unmarked cars blocking the street leading to the station house. A cop’s murder is the time to circle the wagons—all available officers of every rank converge on the command of occurrence. Off-duty, on-duty, retired, in all manners of attire, police from all over the city and beyond answer the unspoken call to arms.

I left my car in the middle of Simpson Street, dodged TV reporters in front of the station house, and took the stairs three at a time to the Anti-Crime office.

The scene was surreal: cops were crying; others appeared cried out and were looking blankly around the room as if trying to figure out what to do. Every available phone was being used. I saw uniforms I didn’t recognize—those of officers from other departments who had heard what happened and had reached out to help.

My first impulse was to break down. Kenny and I were close, and I was having a tough time wrapping my head around his being gone.

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