By Daniel Linskey
It was June 1989 and I had been working drugs undercover since February, but this was the first time I had ever worked Charlestown. It’s the oldest neighborhood in Boston and just 1 square mile in size. I was assigned there to address a potential violent feud that was brewing.
A local thug – I’ll call him John Smith – had recently been released from prison and right away he was set on reestablishing his name as the neighborhood tough guy. It was thought that he had already shot several people and was a suspect in a half dozen previous homicides, but nobody would dare rat him out.
My partner Bobby Pieroway and I had a red beat up Buick Regal that fit in and allowed us to do our work. We were parked down the street from a store that Smith was known to frequent. A car had pulled up in front of the store and allowed a passenger to get in the backseat. They drove off and returned a few minutes later without the backseat passenger. After seeing this happen three times in 30 minutes we were convinced they were up to no good.
They came back and we saw a fourth suspect walking towards them. He was wearing a heavy coat zipped all the way up and was walking with a limp. “What’s up with this kid,” I said to Bobby.
“Let’s find out.”
The car drove about a block and pulled over. We pulled in behind and saw that they were all looking down at something in their hands. “They are doing a deal now,” I said.
I got out and walked toward the passenger side, fully expecting to see them exchanging cash for dope. Instead, I saw that he had a half dozen shotgun shells in his hand. Now I saw the reason for his limp and zipped up heavy coat; he was carrying a shotgun.
I pulled my weapon out and pointed in right to his head. “Gun, Bobby!” Bobby was trailing me by about 50 feet on the driver’s side.
“Boston Police. Don’t Move.”
Bobby covered the other two occupants from the driver’s side as I pulled the kid with the gun out and put my gun to his head. “Don’t move you son of a bitch or I’ll blow your head off.”
He nodded. I then asked him, “where the *&%$ are we?”
“You’re at 43 Decatur Street,” he replied.
I could feel the weapon against my leg as I pegged him to the car. I grabbed my radio. “V845, we’re at 43 Decatur Street. We got three with a sawed-off. Get us some help down here.”
Within seconds three marked cars pulled in and backed us. I cuffed my suspect, removed the sawed-off shotgun from his pants, and placed him in a marked car.
At the booking desk, I learned that the suspect was a pro-boxer who could have easily given me the fight of my life. He requested a breath test because he was shit-faced and wanted to prove he was drunk.
I told him, “Pal, I’m not charging you with driving the gun. I’m charging you with carrying it.”
He laughed and then said, “Well, you guys are lucky you stopped me. I was on my way to kill John Smith. He killed my sister.”
I was stunned. “I’m sorry. You should help us prove it.”
“No one will talk. They’re all afraid of him.”
I said, “I know you might not think so, but this was your lucky day.” I had previously looked at the gun. It was fully loaded and ready to go, except that there was no firing pin in the gun. It wouldn’t have worked.
If he pulled that gun on Smith he would have surely been killed.
He didn’t believe it until I showed him the weapon. I then told him we would do whatever we could to get Smith and hold him accountable. He shook my hand and thanked me.
Seven years later I used that story when I was teaching a criminal law class at the Police Academy. I asked the class for a show of hands. “This kid was armed with a sawed-off shotgun and was caught on his way to shoot a guy. How many of you think this is a punk who is better off locked away?”
The entire class raised their hands.
“Well, what if I told you he was on his way to shoot the man who killed his little sister and most likely five other people but we could never prove it?” I went on to explain that he was a professional boxer with a tough as nails reputation and we took him in without a fight.
They all took their hands down.
After class, one recruit who happened to be from Charlestown came up and asked me for the suspect’s name. He said, “I thought so. I heard something about that.”
During class a few days later the Charlestown recruit said he had a message from the sawed-off shotgun suspect.
Their families knew each other from the neighborhood, and the recruit informed the suspect that he was a living example of the law at the Boston Police Academy. The suspect then asked him to deliver this message.
He said, “Tell Linskey he did me a favor and saved my life. I was drinking too much, full of rage, and was going to kill or be killed. I did my time. I’m sober now and have a wife and kid. I run a volunteer boxing program at the boys’ club, teaching boxing and encouraging kids to make the right choices. I have a job and help run and support a sober house. Smith got locked up and he got his. Please tell Linskey thanks, he saved my life.”
If you want to be an effective cop, get out on the streets, turn corners, keep your eyes open, and treat people the way you want to be treated. There but for the grace of God go I.
