Nine-O Adam

1988

February 26, 2000, 2:00 a.m. in the 90^th precinct, Brooklyn, New York”: “Nine-O Adam respond to a 10-53, no injuries on the Williamsburg Bridge”.  I am driving and Harry squeezes the radio that is wedged in the door handle of our police car. He barely responds into the radio “Four”.  As he finishes his response, we hear a crackling over the radio with the words “Rest in peace Eddie Byrne!” Someone had chimed in with an unauthorized transmission. It was probably someone who knew him. I didn’t know him, but I remember him.

In February of 1988, New York City was at its peak in crime. Crack cocaine was king. Seven New York City police officers were killed in the line of duty that year alone. Eddie Byrne was a rookie cop assigned to the 103^rd precinct in Queens. Not far from where I had lived in 1988. He was new to the NYPD, but he wasn’t new to the job. He had previously been with the New York City Transit Police Department. He followed in the footsteps of his father, a NYPD Lieutenant and joined the NYPD. That cold winter night on February 26, 1988, police officer Edward Byrne had been assigned to sit in front of a witness’ house. That witness was to testify against some major crack dealers of that time. The witness had been getting death threats and the higher ups in the police department assigned a police officer to watch over him. Byrne had been sitting in his police car in front of the witness’ house for a few hours when at about 2:00 a.m., two black males approached his police car. One of them approached the passenger side front window of the police car and made a gesture to roll his window down. The other went over to the driver’s side of the car and shot the police officer point blank in the face five times. The assassin had used a six shot revolver and saved one round for any potential witnesses. I remember coming home that day and seeing my mother very upset while watching the television. When I asked her what was wrong, she said, “This city is a shit hole and we have to get out of here!” Outside my house, you could hear the helicopters and the police sirens, as if the President of the United States was coming to town.

When people say they remember where they were when the heard the news that President Kennedy was killed, I remember where I was when Eddie Byrne was killed. The news on TV showed what had happened. I could not believe it, no one could. The next few days and weeks would bring out the biggest manhunt since the ‘Son of Sam’. On the news, the then President elect, George Bush, was getting involved. In the end, they even gave George Bush, Officer Byrne’s badge. Bush eventually kept the badge in the desk drawer of the Oval Office after he was elected President. What got me the most was Eddie’s brother on the news. He was a United States Marine and boy did he look sharp. Right then and there I knew my future.

Eventually they caught the guys who shot Eddie. The cops from the 103^rd precinct heard that the detectives working the case had a few suspects they were about to apprehend, so they volunteered to back the detectives up during the apprehension. As the detectives entered the house, the cops rushed in past them and beat the shit out of the guys with a hammer. They found the jacket that the shooter wore when he shot Eddie in the face; it had Eddie’s blood all up the sleeve. During the murder trial, it came up that the shooter looked into Eddie’s eyes and acknowledged that his eyes were blue.

About a month ago I asked my mom if she remembered Eddie Byrne. She replied, “Yeah, the cop with the blue eyes!” The lumps of shit that were involved in Eddie’s murder are back on the streets now.

So here I am 12 years later, a New York City Police Officer in a beat up patrol car that has a milk crate supporting the drivers seat. With my partner, Harry, on a freezing cold night working the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Harry, who’s from Bolivia, barely speaks Spanish. He barely speaks at all. That’s why I gave him the nickname ‘C3PO’. When he does speak, it’s monotone and robotic. He is just like the robot from the Star Wars movies. Emotionless but a great guy. Real stand up. He’s the kind of guy that you have to ask three times a night “Harry! Are you OK? Are you mad at me?”

Not far from where my patrol car now sits, Frank Serpico was shot in the face. 776 Driggs Ave was the place. Believe it or not, they still have plenty of drug related radio calls at that same address. 30 years have passed and they still haven’t figured it out. A few blocks further from there is the candy store that a NYPD detective was sitting in front of when he committed suicide. He’s gone but the building is still there. That