At the beginning of a recent weekend, five Tribune reporters spent a day with Chicago police officers from the 18th District, whose station is at 113 W. Chicago Ave.
They tried to get a sense of what it`s like to be a Chicago cop against the backdrop of the city`s most intriguing police district.
Literally and figuratively, the 18th District covers the waterfront.
It is surrounded on three sides by water-Lake Michigan on the east, the Chicago River on the south and the river`s North Branch on the west. (The district`s north boundary is Fullerton Avenue.)
Inside its 4.4 square miles are stunning extremes of wealth and poverty, luxury and despair.
”It`s like a city to itself,” says Capt. Fred O`Reilly, the district commander and a 28-year veteran of the department. ”We have more diversity than any other district. We`ve got everything from A to Z.” The Z, he says, is for the Lincoln Park Zoo.
O`Reilly`s right. You name it, the 18th has it. It has the Magnificent Mile of Michigan Avenue, laden with Chicago`s most exclusive shops and stores. It has the costly high-rises and opulent town houses of the Gold Coast and Streeterville, the expensive enclaves of the Lincoln Park and De Paul neighborhoods and near its western border, infamous Cabrini-Green, a symbol of the failure of high-rise housing for the poor.
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It encompasses the city`s main entertainment districts and most of its swankiest hotels; it has the largest concentration of the best-known bars, clubs and restaurants.
It`s home for some of the most powerful and clout-heavy folks in town and for some of the most powerless and forlorn, too.
The permanent population is just more than 110,000, but on a weekend night, who`s to say how many tourists from Tokyo and Hinsdale are hitting the hot spots?
The 18th also has crime, from residents and visitors, and to prevent it and control it and to arrest the people who commit it sometimes, as one officer says, ”The 18th has more cops per square foot than any place in the Western world.” O`Reilly doesn`t like to say how many, but the total can reach 400.
Last year there were 12 murders in the 18th; so far this year only 4. The biggest problem, O`Reilly says, is theft. There were 5,561 reported thefts last year and already more than 6,500 this year.
Tribune reporters Robert Blau, Paul Galloway, Frank James, Steve Johnson and Linnet Myers accompanied officers of the 18th District from 8 a.m. on Friday, Aug. 18, until 8 a.m. Saturday.
In those 24 hours, there would be 57 arrests. Twelve would be for a dozen offenses classified under vice: 6 for narcotics, 4 for gambling, 2 for prostitution. Officers would cite 26 curfew violations; 84 moving traffic violations and 1,226 parking tickets.
Like combat, police work consists of long periods of routine and boredom punctuated by moments of adrenaline-pumping danger and, occasionally, violence.
During this day and night, there would be car chases and drug busts, a gambling raid and . . .
FROM DRUG BUSTS TO TICKETS, THEY SERVE AND PROTECT 8 a.m. Friday: ”Haynes, Pittacora, Gvosdenovich, Clark. . . .” Lt. James Geoghegan, commander of the second ”watch” (shift), is conducting roll call. Roll calls are held in a room on the second floor of the two-story station, which was built in 1959 and presents a dingy limestone-and-marble facade toward traffic-clogged, pock-marked Chicago Avenue between Dearborn and La Salle Streets.
”. . . O`Brien, Robinson, O`Callaghan, Escobedo. . . . ” Each eight-hour watch has two roll calls, an hour apart, which allows a smooth transition between watches. They`re at 11 p.m. and midnight for the first watch, at 7 and 8 a.m. for the second watch and at 3 and 4 p.m. for the third. Geoghegan announces there may be some picketing over the weekend at abortion clinics in the district, which will call for special details; he also reminds the officers about the Festa Italiana at Navy Pier over the weekend and Sunday`s Triathlon.
8:23 a.m. In the crowded parking lot at the rear of the station, Patrolman Tony Gvosdenovich, 35, a short, stocky, 7 1/2-year veteran with close-cropped dark hair and aviator glasses, is gassing up a battered beater of a squad car. It has 117,000 miles and no fancy new computer that calls up the records of suspects and stolen cars. He rides this day with Tim Clark, 33, a slender, 4-year veteran with reddish brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache.
A small black tag near the MARS lights on the roof of their car reads 1822, which stands for the 18th District, Car 2, Sector 2; the district`s beat map assigns it to an area embracing Cabrini-Green.
8:25 a.m. A call crackles over the car radio. Two men are acting suspiciously around some parked cars near 65 E. Elm St. By the time, Car 1822 reaches State and Cedar Streets, there`s a ”disregard” from
the radio dispatcher, so Gvosdenovich turns back toward Cabrini.
8:36 a.m. Officers from the 18th are stationed at intersections along Michigan Avenue from Oak to Ohio during the surge and creep of morning rush hour. The day is sunny and promises to be warm but not terribly hot.
8:52 a.m. Gvosdenovich and Clark climb the stairs at the Sedgwick stop on the Ravenswood elevated line. On the southbound platform, a few dressed-for-success office workers are reading papers and waiting for the train. On the other, a few older women carrying plastic sacks or large bags are waiting to head north to their jobs as maids.
9:06 a.m. Gvosdenovich and Clark pull up in front of the Cabrini-Green high-rise at 1160 N. Sedgwick St. and lock the doors to their squad. Not even cop cars are immune from thieves.
They`re going to make a walk-through inspection. ”Some people call this hallway the Drug Store,” Gvosdenovich says, approaching the entrance. ”The dealers will line their customers up in the passageway, go up to the apartment where they keep their stash, then come back and very fast pass out the dope.” 10:45 a.m. Two members of the 18th District`s Ski Patrol are meeting at the corner of Webster and Sheffield Avenues. The name comes from the last syllable of their names. They are Chuck Gorski and Mitch Masalski, and they are seated on identical, bright blue Schwinn bicycles. The third member, Nick Kitowski, isn`t working today.
The tall, bearded Gorski is wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt, khaki shorts, white Nike high-tops and shades. Masalski is in a golf shirt, jeans and white Reeboks. Each carries a shoulder bag that contains a radio and a gun.
It`s slow today. Last night, a TV news show aired a segment showing the officers receiving their new bikes from the Sheffield Neighborhood
Association. A few days earlier Anne Keegan of The Tribune had written about the bike patrols that had been busily arresting startled car thieves, burglars and other criminal elements in the residential neighborhoods on the North Side this summer, wheeling up on bikes and catching them in the act.
The Ski Patrol doesn`t think the publicity, all in all, will hurt their ability to keep surprising felons. ”We figure most of the people we arrest don`t read newspapers, so Keegan`s article wouldn`t blow our cover,” Gorski says. ”Even if they do, if they start believing every bicycle rider may be a cop, that`s good enough,” Masalski says.
11:45 p.m.: A district-sponsored picnic for elderly gets underway, with about 40 in attendance. Outreach programs-particularly for youth-are police work, too, says community affairs Sgt. Michael Conforti. ”We try to get to the kids before they go bad,” he says.
12:30 p.m. Three handcuffed males in their late teens or early 20s are led into the station, heading for the lock-up. ”Hell, if I`m gonna break into phones, I`d use a sledgehammer,” one says, a picture of injured innocence.
12:40 p.m. Tactical officers Tom Ward and Dave Strain are driving an old, weathered, unmarked black Ford LTD through Cabrini-Green. As they pass a high- rise, a kid in a red jogging suit who has been standing outside quickly moves into the building. A lookout.
Suddenly Ward veers his Ford over the curb and onto the sidewalk in front of the building, slamming it to a stop next to a tree. Three more young men run inside the building. Two others remain outside. One wears a blue-and-yellow satin UCLA jacket and a San Francisco Giants baseball cap.
Scattered around the tree are a half-dozen tiny, transparent plastic packets, now empty, that are used for cocaine. ”Dime bags” that sell for $10. ”We had information drugs are sometimes stashed in this tree,” Strain says.
Ward asks the youth in the Giants cap if he`s carrying anything in his pockets. The young man pulls $30 in bills from one pocket and $65 from another. ”One`s his money and one`s dope money,” Strain says.
”But ask these kids where they get their money, and they`ll always say their mother gave it to them to buy groceries or clothes. If they`ve got a lot, they say their mother asked them to hold the rent money.”
Strain spots a guy in a Dodgers jacket. ”We raided his house once and found dope in his kitty-litter box.” Ward says, ”He used to love guns. Especially sawed-off shotguns.”
Strain and Ward converse with the young men, trying to get information about drugs and guns. They want to get as many guns off the street as they can.
1:27 p.m. In a backstreet of vacant lots and industrial buildings near Division, Ward motions to a young man in a lavender shirt who`s riding an expensive multispeed bike and wearing a beeper on his belt. He`s known as Dr. Ed, an independent drug dealer. Ward stops the car and Ed walks over and leans in the driver`s window.
”T. Ward!” he exclaims. ”So what can I do for you?”
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Ward asks him how sales are going. Offended, Ed informs him that he is a retired businessman; he is no longer pitching. Ward comments on the gold jewelry Ed wears and asks if his Rolex is real. A copy, Ed says; he paid $200 for it. Ward asks where he stole his bike. Once again offended, Ed says he paid $600 for it and is riding it because his car`s in the shop.
Ward inquires about Ed`s leg, where he was recently shot. The leg is healing nicely, Ed says, the wound having been a nice, clean ”through-and-through.”
”So, Eddie,” Ward says, ”can you get me some guns?”
”Man, you`d rather get guns than dope?” Ed says.
”If I`d got the gun that shot you, you`d be a lot better off, wouldn`t you?” Ward says.
The light dawns for Ed. ”Now I know why you guys are always after guns,” he says. He would love to help, but at the moment he can`t think of anyone who might have a stash of weapons.
1:47 p.m. Ward and Strain are parked at Sammie`s on Division Street, eating hot dogs. An old, yellow Chevrolet screeches to a halt across the street. Dr. Ed jumps out of the passenger seat and bounds across the pavement. ”Some mother just stole my bike,” he shouts. ”T. Ward, you guys got to find `em for me.” The bike, he says, is worth $800, an increase in value of $200 in 20 minutes.
”Tell me where I can get a gun, Eddie?” Ward says.
”Oh, man,” Ed says.
2 p.m. Detective James Povolo, a Belmont Area property crimes detective, prepares to question the three young men charged with breaking into a phone coin box. A witness said the thieves pried open the phone, but found it empty and said, ”That`s how it goes.”
2:15 p.m. Ward and Strain stop at the Cabrini high-rise at 929 N. Hudson Ave. Three teenage males are seated in a venerable blue Olds Cutlass with huge new radials. As soon as they see the officers, they start getting out of the car. Ward calls a youth in a navy-blue T-shirt by name. ”Hey, I know you,”
Ward says. ”You`re one of those guys who made that rap record, `(expletive)
the Police?` ”
”No, sir.”
Ward says he found the song amusing. Then: ”I hear you`re pitching.”
”No, sir, T. Ward,” the youth says.
”How much money you have on you?” Strain asks.
”$65,” the youth says.
”Where`d you get it?” Strain says.
”My mother,” the youth says.
Ward talks to the trio while Strain goes to the driver`s side of the Cutlass and opens the door. When he and Ward drove up, he noticed that the youth in the driver`s seat had lowered one shoulder, as if he were placing something under the seat.