Shortly before 8:00 A.M., Harold Cannon arrived at the 16th Homicide Division wearing the rumpled fifty-dollar suit that was all but mandatory for New York City detectives. He would be responsible for investigating any homicide that occurred in the 103rd, 105th, 107th, or 113th precinct during the next eight hours.
Cannon was black. Five feet eight inches tall, round-faced with receding gray hair, he was slightly overweight and decidedly non-physical in appearance. He had been born in Delaware and raised in New Jersey. After graduating from high school, he apprenticed as a tool and dye maker and served four years in the United States Navy, then returned to work as a machinist. In 1953, he joined the New York City Police Department because, in his words, “It was the only decent job I could get.”
As Cannon entered the Detectives’ Room, Morty Edelson, who worked the midnight to 8:00 A.M. shift, was pecking away at the keys of a typewriter.
“Good morning,” Cannon said cheerfully.
“Ugh!”
“Boy, you must have had a bad night.”
“It was rough,” Edelson answered. “First there was a homicide in the 107th. Then two guys got shot at the Step Inn Bar. After that, there was another call from the 103rd Precinct. I haven’t even had time to answer that one.”
The telephone rang, and Edelson picked up the receiver. “I’ll be there, I’ll be there. I’m typing up reports on two other homicides. If I don’t get them in by nine, the press will scream and the public relations people will have my ass.”
Cannon’s face wrinkled up in a smile. He was a genuinely nice man who, more often than not, was willing to share the burdens that had been placed on a fellow officer. “What’s that all about?” he asked when the conversation ended.
“The 103rd again. Some father-and-son stickup team robbed a cab. The cops shot one of them, and it turned out to be a kid.”
“Tell you what,” Cannon offered. “You’ve had a long night. I’ll take the last homicide.”
“Sold.”
Cannon noted the time on his memo pad, then walked toward the door.
“Hey, Harold,” Edelson said, looking up from his typewriter. “Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it. You owe me one.”
As Cannon left the 16th Division detectives’ room, the 103rd Precinct station house had begun to stir. After notifying Leonard Flanagan of Clifford Glover’s death, Joseph Kossmann had telephoned Glanvin Alveranga, who arrived at the station house within the hour. Next, Kossmann telephoned Inspector Robert Johnson (the Commanding Officer of the 16th Division), who arrived ninety minutes later.
Johnson’s appearance meant that Alveranga had been superseded as top cop on the case.
Like Alveranga, Johnson was black.
Meanwhile, after leaving Edelson, Cannon drove directly to the lot and found fourteen men from the Emergency Services Squad combing the area for a gun.
Taking charge, the detective radioed the station house and asked that Shea be sent to help. Shea, who had just finished an interview with Sergeant Donald Bromberg, arrived with a second cop minutes later and reenacted the shooting for Cannon.
As he finished, Inspector Johnson arrived, and Shea repeated his story again, after which Johnson ordered that ground and aerial photographs of the area be taken.
Shea was pleased that Alveranga had been superseded by Johnson. The inspector (although black) was popular among white cops and had a reputation as “a pretty decent guy.” Johnson, for his part, thought Shea seemed “a lot less shook up than most cops would be after killing a ten-year-old boy.”
As the search progressed, more and more cops filtered into the area. Shortly after 10:30 A.M., a large balding man with burly forearms and heavy jowls approached Shea and extended his right hand.
“Hi, I’m Charlie Peterson, the PBA Trustee for Queens County.”
The name was familiar. Each precinct had several cops who served as delegates to the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association and reported to a borough trustee. Notified of the shooting by a PBA delegate, Peterson had driven from his home to the station house, then to the lot.
“What happened?” the trustee asked.
Shea repeated his story.
“Have you made any statements?”
“Yes.”
“Who did you talk with?”
Shea told him.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Peterson said. “Even if there’s nothing to hide, it’s hard to think straight right after a shooting. You’ve been through a traumatic experience, and you should have waited a few hours to calm down. Now, if you change your story, it will be held against you.”
“But I told them everything that happened.”
“You told them everything you remember,” Peterson corrected. “You might think of something else later.”
Shea shrugged his shoulders. “Okay! I’m sorry.”
The trustee looked around the lot at the dozen or so cops searching through broken glass, cardboard, and tin cans. The sky was gray overhead. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Let’s go back to the station house. I’ve arranged for a PBA lawyer to meet us there.”
Minutes after Peterson and Shea left the lot, Harold Cannon did likewise. The boy’s death was a tragedy, but Cannon didn’t see what more could be done about it. Even if the search for a gun came up empty, it wouldn’t be the first time in his experience that a weapon had disappeared. Any one of the neighbors could have taken it. All that remained was a pro forma questioning of the father. Then Armstead would be booked for robbery, possession of a deadly weapon, or some other offense, and the investigation could be closed.
Driving along New York Boulevard toward the station house, Cannon was planning his schedule for the day ahead when he passed the Glover-Armstead home.
He wondered whether anyone had notified Eloise Glover of her son’s death. If not, as the detective who had “caught” the case, it was his responsibility. Slowing to a halt at 109-50 New York Boulevard, he took several deep breaths and approached the front door. Moments after he rang the bell, Mrs. Glover answered.
Cannon introduced himself and asked if she knew about her son.
“I heard,” she told him. “Someone from a newspaper called maybe an hour ago.”
A sorrowful misunderstanding was in the making. The reporter who called had told Mrs. Glover that Clifford was shot in a robbery but that his injuries were minor.
“I’d like to go to the hospital to see him.”
The request did not strike the detective as unusual. On numerous other occasions, a parent had asked to see the body of a deceased child.
“I’ll call the hospital to see if it’s all right,” he said. “Could I use your telephone?”
She nodded and led him to the kitchen, then went to the living room to wait.
Several minutes later Cannon reappeared.
“It’s too late,” he said. “Your son’s body has already been taken to the morgue.”
As Cannon and Mrs. Glover talked, Thomas Shea sat with Charlie Peterson in a diner across from the 103rd Precinct station house. Peterson was eating scrambled eggs. Shea picked at a hamburger and french fries. Despite not having eaten since the previous evening, he wasn’t hungry. He’d slept two hours in the past two days and wanted to go home.
“What do you think will happen next?” Shea asked.
“They’ll investigate for a couple of hours,” Peterson told him. “Then they’ll let you go. Maybe you’ll get a reprimand.”
“A reprimand wouldn’t be fair,” Shea said. “I was only doing my job. Walter and I didn’t have to stop. We could have driven right by those two guys, but we were doing our job. They robbed a cab, and then one of them pulled a gun on me.”
“We think they robbed a cab,” Peterson corrected. “Let’s face it. You’ve got two problems. One, the kid was ten years old. And two, he was black.”
“A reprimand wouldn’t be fair,” Shea said again.
“Don’t worry about it. Finish your hamburger and let’s go see the lawyer.”
The lawyer was James Cahill. Heavyset, of medium height with thick sideburns and gray hair, Cahill looked very much like a retired cop. Born in Brooklyn, he had attended St. John’s College, served in the United States Army, and worked as an insurance-claims adjuster before returning to St. John’s to study iaw. After that, he had engaged in private practice, served as an assistant district attorney in Brooklyn for seven years, and finally joined the legal staff of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association. The only visible trace of his years in the District Attorney’s office was a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver worn in a holster looped over his belt. Cahill had started carrying it when forced to travel into rough neighborhoods alone on investigations. Once he owned it, he felt that it was safer with him than in a closet or desk drawer, where his two children might stumble upon it.
Informed at home of the shooting, Cahill promised his wife he would be back for lunch, then drove to the station house in South Jamaica. Like PBA trustees, PBA attorneys were always summoned in the event of a police shooting. Cahill anticipated nothing out of the ordinary. When Shea arrived, Cahill handed him a mimeographed form headed “PBA Legal Program” and waited while Shea filled in the blanks:
NAME: Thomas J. Shea
RANK: Patrolman
SHIELD #: 22737
COMMAND: 103
Then, for what seemed like the hundredth time, Shea repeated his story, closing with the words “I didn’t know he was young until I leaned over the body. I didn’t learn he was ten until I got back to the station house and they told me he had died. I have two kids just about the same age. I didn’t know. Honest!”
“Are you sure you identified yourself as a cop?”
“Of course, I’m sure. An undercover cop was killed in this precinct last year because he didn’t identify himself. I always say I’m a cop when I stop someone. The person I’m stopping might be a cop too.”
Cahill started to ask another question, but Shea interrupted.
“Before we go any further, I’d like to call my wife. I should have been home hours ago, and she’ll start to worry. I don’t want her to think I’ve been shot.”
“Okay,” Cahill said. “Tell her not to be concerned. This kind of investigation is normal. You’ll be home by the end of the day.”
As Shea and Cahill talked confidently on the first floor, a different scene was unfolding upstairs. Several weeks earlier, New York City Police Commissioner Patrick Murphy had resigned to become President of the National Police Foundation in Washington, D.C. His successor, Donald Cawley, was anxious to avoid any charge that he had mishandled the first “incident” of his tenure.
Upon being notified in mid-morning of Clifford Glover’s death, Cawley telephoned Chief of Detectives Louis Cottell and instructed him to look into the shooting. Cottell then telephoned Chief of Operations Hugo Masini and asked for his assistance. Masini and Cottell arrived at the 103rd Precinct shortly before noon. With their appearance, it was apparent that this was no longer a “normal” case.
As Chief of Operations, Masini was the highest-ranking uniformed cop in the Department, responsible only to the Commissioner himself. Cottell, as Chief of Detectives, was one level below Masini in the police hierarchy and was charged with the administration and control of New York City’s entire 3,000-man Detective Division.
Wasting no time, Cottell took control of the investigation. Tall, with graying hair and heavy dark-rimmed bifocals, he looked like a non-combatant, but his voice and manner were unmistakably tough. Upon his arrival in South Jamaica, he spoke first with Robert Johnson and Glanvin Alveranga, then with Al Farrell and Tom Scott.
“No one here has any balls,” Cottell complained to Masini when the questioning concluded. “Everyone is acting as though no police procedure or law was broken.”
“Was it?” Masini asked.
“I don’t know, but we’d better find out. Too many people in this city believe that the police always provide the elements necessary to justify a killing of this sort. I don’t want any allegations of a cover-up on this one.”
“What do we do?”
“We talk with the participants,” Cottell answered.
At 12:30 P.M., Add Armstead was ushered into a conference room on the second floor of the 103rd Precinct station house. Seven cops sat at the table in front of him. One by one, Inspector Robert Johnson introduced them: Glanvin Alveranga, Commanding Officer of the 103rd Precinct; Leonard Flanagan, the on-duty Captain for Queens; Louis Cottell, Chief of Detectives; Hugo Masini, Chief of Operations; William Braunstein, Deputy Commissioner for Queens; John Wilson, Detective Inspector for Queens; Harold Tyson, Deputy Inspector for Queens. An eighth man, police stenographer Vincent Tummarello, sat off to the side with a Stenorette tape recorder.
Three of the men present outranked Johnson, but they had agreed to defer to him for the purpose of interrogating the suspect. In twenty-seven years on the force, the Inspector had acquired a reputation for professionalism and calm that merited respect. Born and raised in Manhattan, the son of a valet to Broadway actor Robert Hilliard, Johnson had fought in wartime Europe under General George S. Patton. Of the experience he later said, “Patton was a good commander. When he said, ‘Move,’ you moved.” More than incidentally, Cottell, Masini, and Braunstein also felt that Armstead might be more open if questioned by a black officer.
“Mr. Armstead,” Johnson began, “we are here to get the facts of what happened this morning. How old are you?”
“I be fifty-one on June fourteenth.”
“What is your full name?”
“Add Armstead.”
“Where do you live?”
“109-50 New York Boulevard.”
Wasting no time, Johnson turned to the hour before dawn.
“What time did you leave your home this morning, Mr. Armstead?”
“Ten minutes to five.”
“Where were you going?”
“115-05 New York Boulevard. I work there.”
“Was your son with you?”
“Yes.”
“How big is your son?”
“He stands about like this,” Armstead answered, holding his hand four and a half feet off the floor.
“What does he weigh?”
“About a hundred.”
As the attending officers scribbled notes, Johnson went on. “Did someone approach you on New York Boulevard?”
“When I got to this lot, a car pulled up in back of me. A man jumped out and said, ‘You black son of a bitch.’ Then he fired a gun. Me and my son started running.”
“Along New York Boulevard?”
“Through the lot. I ran through the lot. My son ran behind me.”
“Did you know they were police officers?”
“I didn’t know who they was. It was just a car. When he said ‘black son of a bitch’ and fired the gun, I started running. If they had told me they was police officers, I would have never run.”
Wilson and Braunstein exchanged glances. Alveranga was looking down at the table.
“What else happened?” Johnson asked.
“I ran over to Dillon. I seen an officers’ car.”
“Where were you?”
“I was on Dillon. They came up, and I told them my son is shot. They said, ‘All right, get in the car.’”
“You got in the car there?”
“I got in the car, and we came around.”
“Your son was lying on the ground?”
“That’s right.”
Johnson shifted his line of questioning. “Are you married, Mr. Armstead?”
“My wife has been dead three years last Easter. I live common law.”
“How long have you been common law?”
“Been living common law from seventy-one.”
“Does your son live with you?”
“Yes.”
“Has your son ever been in trouble?”
“No, he’s a smart boy.”
Oh, sweet Jesus, Alveranga thought suddenly. He still doesn’t know the boy is dead.
“Have you ever been in trouble?” Johnson asked.
“In sixty-four, I bought a car along 116th Avenue and I found a plate. I put it on the car, and an officer stopped me. I got busted for that, so I put in twenty-three days on Rikers Island. Then I got framed with a girl, so I got four months.”
“What for?”
“Statutory rape. I put in four months on Rikers Island.”
“Those were the only times you were ever arrested?”
“Those were the only times I was ever arrested.”
Deputy Commissioner William Braunstein interrupted. “Mr. Armstead, when you were stopped this morning, did you start running immediately?”
“No.”
“When did you start running?”
“When he said ‘you black son of a bitch’ and shot.”
“Did they say anything to you when they got out of the car?”
“All he said was ‘You black son of a bitch,’ and he fired the gun.”
“Did he show you anything?”
“He didn’t show me nothing. If he would have showed me a badge or told me, ‘I am a police officer,’ I wouldn’t have run. All he said was ‘You black son of a bitch,’ and he fired the gun.”
Johnson picked up the questioning. “Then what happened?”
“I started running.”
“Did you hear any other shots?”
“I heard shots fired.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know, about five. All I know is, I was running.”
“Where was your son?”
“Right in back of me.” Armstead’s voice trembled slightly. “In back of me, right in back of me.”
“When did you discover that he wasn’t there?”
“When I got on Dillon. I didn’t see my son, and I saw the officers’ car. I flagged for them. They carried me over to where the other officers were, and I saw my son.”
“In other words,” Braunstein interrupted, “once you started to run, you didn’t stop until you saw the radio car?”
“No sir. I didn’t stop. I was scared. I was scared when I didn’t see my son.”
It was 1:05 P.M. The interrogation had lasted thirty-five minutes. Johnson sent Armstead back to the roll-call room, then turned to Alveranga. “Get me Shea.”
At 1:07 P.M., Thomas Shea entered the second-floor conference room with James Cahill and Charlie Peterson on either side. Unshaven, dressed in anticrime clothes, having had two hours’ sleep in the past two days, he looked awful. As he was seated, Johnson addressed him.
“Officer, state your full name, shield number, and command.”
“Patrolman Thomas J. Shea, Shield Number 22737, 103rd Precinct.”
“What was your assignment last night?”
“Neighborhood anticrime.”
“Officer Shea,” Johnson began, “we are in the process of making an investigation relative to the shooting that happened last night. Before you answer any questions, it is my duty to advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you. You have the right to consult with your attorney before making any statements or answering any questions. You have the right to stop the questioning at any time.”
Shea trembled slightly, and Cahill reached out a steadying hand. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It’s just formality. They read Miranda warnings anytime there’s a shooting investigation.”
“Officer Shea,” Johnson said, “will you tell us what happened on New York Boulevard around five o’clock this morning?”
“My brother officer and I recovered a 1970 Chevrolet,” Shea answered. “The car had been stripped, motor and everything taken off. We were on our way to the station house to make out the proper papers. At New York Boulevard and 112th Road, after they were brought to my attention by my brother officer, I observed two male Negroes walking south. They fit the description we recalled on an armed assault and robbery. At this time, my brother officer made a U-turn. I stepped from the vehicle, shield and ID card in my left hand, and yelled, ‘Stop. Police officers.’ Then the male in the yellow jacket and white hat said, ‘Fuck you, you’re not taking me,’ and started running with the other male.”
The police stenographer halted the questioning to insert a new tape in the Stenorette recorder. Then Johnson picked up again.
“Could you describe these two men?”
“One had a yellow waist-type jacket and floppy white hat. The other had a brown three-quarter-length leather jacket.”
“How tall were they?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Were they tall, short?”
“I didn’t pay attention to height. We had a report that these men robbed a cab.”
“All right,” Johnson said. “Go on with your story.”
“I chased the two subjects into the lot. There’s a chain-link fence in the middle of the area, and both males ran alongside the fence. At this time, the male with the yellow waist-type jacket reached in the vicinity of his front pocket and came up with a black-metal revolver.”
“How far were you from this person?”
“Ten or fifteen feet. At this point I fired three shots from my service revolver. The male in the yellow waist-type jacket gave the revolver to the male in the brown leather three-quarter-length jacket and fell. I stopped, checked the male in the yellow jacket, and yelled to my partner to go after the other male Negro.”
“Where did the man in the brown jacket go?” Johnson asked.
“He ran forward along the fence past an old garage. Then I heard two more shots. I yelled to my partner, ‘Are you all right?’ But there was no response. Next I heard a car starting up and taking off. I kept yelling and, a short time later, my partner came back to where I was and asked if I was all right. Then radio cars started coming into the area, and Patrolman Tom Scott brought a male in a brown three-quarter jacket over to us. He was the other one.”
Deputy Inspector Harold Tyson leaned forward to insert himself into the questioning.
“What was the time element from the time you fired your shots at the son and Patrolman Tom Scott coming over with the father?”
“Five to ten minutes.”
“Where did the younger one take the gun from?”
“I think it was his pocket. It came from where his pocket would be. It could have been his waist band. I don’t know for sure, but I know I saw the gun. I saw the gun and, when he started to turn, I fired.”
“It must have been fairly dark then,” Tyson noted.
“No sir, a few minutes before daylight.”
“All right,” Johnson said. “Officer Shea, you are temporarily excused. We might want to talk with you again after we’ve spoken with your partner. Mr. Cahill and Mr. Peterson, you may remain to advise Patrolman Scott if you wish.”
Shea left the room and went to a telephone to call his wife a second time. At 1:26 P.M., the interrogation of Walter Scott began.
“What is your name?” Johnson asked.
“Walter Scott.”
“Shield number?”
“13777.”
“When were you assigned to the 103rd Precinct?”
“March of last year.”
As he had done with Shea, Johnson advised Scott of his constitutional rights. “Do you understand?” he asked when finished.
“Yes sir, I do.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“At about five o’clock this morning, where were you?”
“We were northbound on New York Boulevard between 112th Road and Mathias Avenue,” Scott answered.
“Did you have occasion to stop anyone?”
“Yes sir, we did. We saw two male Negroes who fit the description of a past robbery with a gun on a taxicab. We made a U-turn and pulled abreast of the men. Patrolman Shea got out of the car with his shield showing and announced himself as a police officer. With this, the male Negro on the right turned and said, ‘Fuck you, you’re not going to take me.’”
“Is that what he actually said?” Johnson interrupted.
“Yes, at which time both defendants started to run. Patrolman Shea chased the two men into a wooded area, at which time I called for assistance and pulled my car onto 112th Road between Dillon and New York Boulevard. Then I exited from the car and came up behind Patrolman Shea in the wooded area. He was behind the two male Negroes, and I was behind Patrolman Shea. At this point, the male wearing the yellow jacket and white floppy hat seemed to make a motion on his right side.
Patrolman Shea fired his gun, and the smaller of the two perpetrators handed the taller of the two a gun. Then the smaller perpetrator fell by the fence. Patrolman Shea stayed there, and I chased the other perpetrator around a tree. He stopped, wheeled, and fired a shot. I returned the fire, at which time I ran back to my car on 112th Road and drove over to Dillon looking for the perpetrator, but I couldn’t find him. Then I came back to Patrolman Shea by the fence, and he went out to get the radio cars that were responding.”
Johnson looked questioningly at the witness. “Is that the whole story as you saw it?”
“That’s it.”
“You fired one shot?”
“One shot.”
“Where?”
“I was behind a tree, maybe twenty feet from the garage outside the fence.”
“Then what happened?”
“I couldn’t catch him, so I ran back to my car on 112th Road. I figured I might get him at Dillon. I took my car from 112th Road around to Dillon where I jumped out, but I didn’t see him so I came back to help Patrolman Shea.”
For the first time in the proceedings, Glanvin Alveranga interrupted. “Scott, when was the first time you saw the gun?”
“After Patrolman Shea shot the smaller of the two and he handed it to the fellow with the leather coat.”
“After Patrolman Shea fired, you saw the gun?”
“After he shot, the perpetrator stumbled. And as he stumbled, he handed the other defendant the gun.”
“Can you describe the weapon?” Alveranga pressed.
“From what I saw, it was a Saturday night special.”
“What color?”
“Black or blue-black.”
“Was it a revolver?”
“Yes.”
“You saw the barrel?”
“Yes.”
Inspector John Wilson looked up from his notes.
“How far was Shea behind the two of them when he fired the first shot?” Wilson asked.
“Roughly five to ten feet.”
“How far behind Shea were you at the time?”
“Three to five feet, somewhere in that neighborhood.”
Several of the brass present noted the distance on their pads. At such close quarters, there was no room for honest error on Scott’s part. Either there had been a gun or he was lying.
“You’re excused,” Johnson told him. “We might want to talk with you again.”
It was 1:40 P.M. Five minutes, later Frank Damiani (the cabdriver whose robbery had preceded the shooting) was ushered into the room.
“You’ve seen Mr. Armstead,” Johnson told him. “Were you asked to identify him?”
“Yes, twice.”
“Was he one of the men who robbed you?”
“No.”
Johnson stood up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Alveranga asked.
“To call the District Attorney.”
“Let Harold Cannon do it,” Alveranga said. “You and I have another job to do.”
Al Farrell was getting annoyed. It was 2:00 P.M., and he had been on overtime for six and a half hours without a break. The previous day, he had testified before a Queens County grand jury and gotten four hours’ sleep. He wanted to go home.
Instead, he and his partner were cooped up in the roll-call room of the 103rd Precinct with Add Armstead while police brass scurried by. Armstead wasn’t even good company. Outside of thanking Farrell for a cup of coffee the cop had bought him, he hadn’t said a word.
Farrell rose from his chair and wandered toward the vending machines to examine the available supply of chocolate bars and peanut butter cookies. As he did, Robert Johnson and Glanvin Alveranga entered the room.
“Please come with us,” Johnson said to Armstead.
“Where to?”
“Upstairs.”
They walked from the room, leaving Farrell and Tom Scott behind.
On the second floor Alveranga opened the door to a small office, and the three men stepped inside. Armstead looked around, then crossed to the window and stared out with his back to his captors.
“You gonna tell me something?”
“Your boy is dead,” Johnson said.
“I guess I knowed.”
“How could you run away and leave him like that?” Alveranga asked softly.
“I ran ’cause I had money in my pocket and I thought they was fixing to rob me. He was just a boy. I didn’t think they’d hurt him. I swear that. I never knowed they would hurt him.”