ANGEL DUST MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE

An Ex-Cop Describes What It's Like To Fight A Crazed Perp

If the people who are so critical of the Cincinnati police for Nathaniel
Jones' death had any experience with someone high on angel dust, they'd
back off. I know. I've been there.

On a hot day in August 1983, my partner and I were dispatched to a dispute
at a housing project near E. 101st St. and Second Ave. We arrived at the
same time as another sector and climbed to the third floor. There, the four
of us, with a total of eight years on the job, saw a male, about 5-feet-6
and weighing no more than 150 pounds, standing outside an apartment with a
look on his face like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist."

The apartment door was concave - he had actually dented a steel door trying
to get at his girlfriend inside. Can you imagine what he would have done to
her if he had gotten in?

The smallest police officer was about 5-feet-8 and 160 pounds. The rest of
us weighed at least 180 each. Yet when we tried to handcuff this guy, he
threw us around like rag dolls.

Within 30 seconds, I realized that Police Academy wrestling stuff works
only with other police recruits, so I hauled off and punched him in the
face. Unlike what happens to Clint Eastwood, the bones in my right hand
shattered. But this maniac brushed off my punch as though a girl scout had
smacked him.

With my good hand I radioed for backup, and after what seemed like an hour
- - probably five minutes - the other three cops got him cuffed.

Was it over? No way. With his hands cuffed behind his back, our guy took
off down the stairs. We gave chase, but he lost us in 5 seconds.
Fortunately, two housing cops were able to tackle and subdue him two blocks
away.

There were no camcorders around in those days. If there had been, we would
have looked like six brutal white cops abusing a Latino man. The fact that
he was high on angel dust would have meant nothing, especially to anyone
who has never tried to subdue someone like this.

The story doesn't end there. One week later, I was on the precinct
switchboard with my broken hand in a cast. Two detectives walked in with a
young Hispanic woman I immediately recognized as the woman on the other
side of that dented door.

Our friend, after being released by the courts, had gone back to the
apartment. This time, the woman stuck an 8-inch carving knife into his
chest. His angel dusting days were over. She was not prosecuted. Neither
should those Cincinnati cops be.

Naspretto is a retired NYPD police captain.