LIFE AFTER RUSSIAN ROULETTE: REDEMPTION. Michael Kaminski

Again, I unplugged the slot machines and attached “Out of Order” signs to each device. Again, I wrote incident reports to cover my actions.

      This game continued for several months. Eventually most of the locations obtained and posted valid licenses for each machine on the premises. Nevertheless, in the process, I had made waves. Someone did not like my aggressive enforcement of the law, which many people, both club owners and patrons, viewed as harassment.

      One night, on midnight shift, as I was sleeping in a cemetery, the back window of my patrol car was shot out with a shotgun blast. The impact woke me from a dead sleep. I never knew who pulled the trigger but I took it as a warning. I forgot the motto of the Baltimore City Police Department – “Ever on the Watch.”

      That was the last night I slept on graveyard shift or parked in a dark cemetery. Suddenly I felt very alone as I wrote the incident report of the shooting and submitted it to Sergeant Unger and Lieutenant Parker. The investigation of the incident never produced any suspects.

      After the incident in the cemetery, I turned my attention more toward drug activities. I needed informants and thought about Glenn Russo. He developed informants in two ways – through observation and other people. I had a passion, even an addiction, to narcotics investigations and since nothing was going on in the Beach, I needed to create my own excitement, another game – car checks.

      By this time, the burning days of summer had finally hit the Beach and people bustled around, enjoying the sunshine. I knew it was time to go on aggressive patrol and bring a different type of sunshine into their lives.

      Vehicles with inspection or moving violations soon became my targets. You always need probable cause to justify your actions, as a cop. Observation was the key that I learned from Russo.

      My statistics increased. The DWI/DUI arrests were solid. However, minor violations like speeding, other moving violations, driving without a license or registration, unregistered vehicles or inspection violations were usually negotiable. If I was really lucky on a vehicle check or stop, I found some type of illegal substance. That was the jackpot. The tradeoff for being charged or fined was to be an informant. My network of contacts grew.

      Eventually my drug arrests, although minor, increased. I was doing what I loved but with a handicap. I was in uniform. Then I also had a goal – to have my name known to the Vice and Narcotics Unit. I knew my information would be channeled and read by someone in the division. The arrests may have been small, but they showed activity and a desire. And I kept thinking about PJ Werner.

      The blistering days of July turned into the dog days of August and dayshift always was boring in the Beach. However, one day proved to be an exception.

      On a routine patrol, I drove on Fort Smallwood Road to the bridge over the Magothy River that connects the two sections of Rivera Beach. There he was.

      A man was walking across the bridge. He was not dressed in the usual fashion, at least not for that time of the year. He wore a graduation robe and a four-pointed graduation hat with a tassel. He also walked with an open umbrella covering his head even though it was not raining.

      As I watched him walking, he reminded me of Professor Kool. My curiosity got the best of me. I had to find out why he was wearing this strange outfit since graduation had been over a couple of months.

      “Stop,” I announced into the loud speaker from my patrol car. The man continued to cross the bridge.

      “Stop. Police,” I demanded again but the man continued, not paying any attention to me. This lack of authority irritated me.

      “Halt,” I said for the third time. Instead of stopping, the man started to run. Although he was not doing anything wrong, his demeanor and appearance were not normal.

      I stopped my car and yelled, “Halt or I will shoot.”

      The man continued to run toward the other side of the bridge. I pulled out my service revolver and fired a warning shot. He jumped from the bridge and into the river. Fortunately, he was near the shoreline. I jumped into the water and pulled him out. After all, I did not want him to drown. This would be a very difficult report to write. No matter what, I could never justify firing my gun. But now, with my uniform soaking wet, I would have to explain why I jumped into the river.

      The man was mentally ill and had walked away from a psychiatric facility. I wrote the report as saving his life and he never made a complaint about me. Nothing was reported about the shot that I fired in his direction for no reason. No one ever knew the truth.

      During the sweltering month of August, I continued to make my visits to the bars, clubs and establishments that had one-armed bandits and other gambling devices. I felt good and powerful, knowing that I irritated the owners with my police presence.

      What I did not know was that unofficial complaints were being made about me. What I learned later rang true – friends and enemies are interchangeable. Allies and enemies depend on whom you know. That September brought an unexpected change to my life and family.

      “Mike, you are being transferred to Vice and Narcotics.” Sergeant Unger said to me in the squad room after I came in from dayshift.

      Those words were surprisingly unexpected. I had not formally requested a transfer. I was only on patrol for a year. I had not even considered putting in a written request.

      “Are you serious, Sarge?” I responded. Why me? Really, why was I being transferred? Was it because of what I had done in the Beach? Or was it because someone wanted me out of the Beach?

      “You have been requested,” Sergeant Unger replied. “That is all I know. You will be assigned to Sergeant Danny Sanders in Vice, effective October 1. You can ask him.”

      When I had the opportunity, I contacted Sergeant Danny Sanders. Because of my issues with authority, I was very guarded in how I wanted to approach him. And, I did not know him.

      “Sergeant Sanders,” I introduced myself. “I understand that I have been assigned to Vice and I will be working for you.”

      From what I heard about Sergeant Sanders, he was a straight cop. He was very Christian, very religious. Danny Sanders was totally against all forms of vice activities, especially prostitution, pornography and the massage parlors. His philosophy was perfect for his position.

      “Actually, you were initially assigned to Vice,” Sergeant Sanders replied. “You will still be working for me but you are being assigned to the Narcotics side of the unit. When PJ Werner heard you were coming in, he personally requested you as his partner.”