After the part time death of the junkie at the doss house, I increased my efforts to find whoever was killing off these druggies. My experience was that Rumanian dealers get a bit of a kick out of giving near pure heroin to druggies just for the hell of killing some of them off. They found it amusing but practically no one else did. So that’s what I thought we were up against.
The reality of it though, was somewhat different.
I got some information that a woman in a particular suburb was selling strong gear at a pretty reasonable price. We set up surveillance and were able to get someone carry a little shopping bag of gear away so we got an entry warrant. The shopping bag was just a small amount of heroin in the cut off corner of a plastic shopping bag.
So then, early one morning we went to execute it. We used to have a game. Whoever’s job it was, had to get into the premises without cracking the door. A broken door meant that the crooks got a new door and we had to go to the trouble of getting Public Works out on an urgent job to fix it. So the game was to get the crook to open the door without us having to break it.
I was dressed like the usual bag of shit I dress liked. I went up to the front door of the flat and knocked. A short time later the lady of the house answered the door and let me in. <i>How fucken easy was that</i>!! I thought. So I followed her into the unit and surprise, surprise the door slammed shut behind me, it was on a spring. There I was in my ugliest clothes (without my gun) ID in one pocket, warrant in the other feeling very alone. I had just watched Prince of the City and Sirpico and knew I was about to get ‘hit’. “Hi,” I started “my name’s….” And then I saw the rock ape clumping down the stairs towards me, naked and pumped, his foreshortened cock and shrunken testicles barely visible through his public hair. He was a ‘roid-rager (not haemorrhoid – steroid). “Who the fuck are you,” he growled quite literally … he growled. “Hi” (again) “I’m …” talking very slowly “and I was just wondering if I could by any chance perhaps purchase some controlled substances from you, I know its early and the time is not probably right but …” and I went on and on and on. The rock ape was agro and right in my face but the chick was nodding, agreeing with what I was saying.
Eventually she agreed that I could procure a bit of smoko from her. It was slightly more than 13 years before my support team came after me, well it felt that long anyway. They had got bored during surveillance and at some point both had looked at one another to talk and that’s when I was let it and they lost sight of me. They looked around and couldn’t see me. They didn’t know where I’d gone. And then I heard the door open and a sheepish detective say “… are you there?” At that point I sighed, and pulled out the warrant and my ID, “by the way I’ve got a warrant to search your home.”
To say everyone was confused was an understatement. In the interview with the chick afterwards, she confessed to being very confused, she thought I was an old stoner that had somehow got lost and she felt sorry for me and was going to GIVE me her own stash of dope out of pity. Further investigation revealed she had been the one selling the hot gear, killing junkies left right and centre but she had <i>such</i> a raging habit she was only selling what gave her a buzz and didn’t realize the stuff was so hot. The DPP recognized there may have been a case against her but declined to proceed against her for manslaughter as they deemed it un-winnable and the junkies had contributed too much to their own demise.
