In the early 1970s, I was sitting in my patrol car in Westbury, Long Island, New York, watching for stop sign violations when two little boys approached shyly and said hello. Curious as cats, they wanted to see everything in the car. Demetri, the more vocal of the two, was about ten years old; his brother Nicholas was backward and shy for his eight years. I showed them the usual things: lights, radio, and other equipment. I had to explain everything and every time I told them something, or explained how something worked, Demetri asked, "Why?" At the time, I remember feeling, at first, a bit impatient. As time went by I became really impatient. Who was I, their teacher? I held my temper, however, because they were so cute and so innocent. They were just wide-eyed and so in awe of everything. Demetri was very talkative and animated and Nicholas just had a big smile on his face the whole time. So, though I knew I had better things to do than babysit two kids for nearly an hour, I went along. It was kinda fun.
When I told them finally that I had to go, they asked me for my autograph! I was taken aback and gave them some official sounding mumbo jumbo, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. So, I reluctantly at first wrote my name on a scrap of paper and gave it to them. It took about six seconds for the experience to grow on me. They actually wanted my autograph, like I was somebody important, someone to be admired. I thought about that for a minute and realized that it was a good thing, that kids should admire policemen, firemen, teachers, emergency service personnel, and their parents, just as much as they admire sports heroes and actors and pop singers.
Patrolling that post for sixteen years, I would see the boys from time to time, and they would always wave to me. Sometimes I'd stop and we'd talk for a bit. I knew they were into mischief, though never anything too bad. As they got older, however, other officers and I would get called to their house by their father, Nicholas Sr. The boys would fight and he couldn't stop them, because they had gotten so big and a little out of control. Every time I entered the house, Nicholas Sr. would yell up the stairs, "Officer Byrne is here!" The boys would creep down the stairs with their heads hung down, apologizing all the way. It was lucky for me that I had this mysterious power over them, because they were both bigger than me.
I took a desk position in 1990, so I didn't see the boys on the street anymore. In 1991, while I was preparing for a softball game, I was approached by PO Al Barnych, who asked me if I had heard the whole story of what happened at my old beat. He received a radio call to the boys' home. Nicholas shot his mother as she sat in the living room; and he shot Nicholas Sr., as he came downstairs. Nicholas had problems, very deep, hidden problems. For reasons that no one will ever know, he snapped that day. He did something terrible and violent and unthinkable. I was appalled. Little Nicholas, the boy with the face-wide grin had killed his parents. PO Barnych said that when he confronted Nicholas, he wasn't sure what Nicholas would do. The boy stood there with a loaded gun in his hand and his parents' bodies at his feet. Barnych told him, in a quiet voice, to put the gun down, slowly, and to put his hands behind his head. For a moment, he was sure, Nicholas was going to try to shoot him, but all the rage seemed to flush out of him at once. Suddenly, Nicholas surrendered and said: "I will respect you, because I have always had respect for Officer Kevin Byrne and because he has always treated me with respect."
As amazing as this sounds, I was reminiscing with my desk lieutenant Robert Nash recently, and he told me that he not only remembered the incident, but he received the call and was the supervising officer on the scene. Lieutenant Nash recalls the shooting like it was yesterday.
On the job, they always tell you to treat people the right way, because your contact with them may be their only contact with the police and create a lasting good or bad impression. One day I gave two young boys a little bit of my time, and I always wonder what would have happened between Officer Barnych and Nicholas if I hadn't.
Nicholas was sentenced to sixteen to forty years for manslaughter. I still see Demetri occasionally. He says that he can finally forgive his brother. As for me, I can't forget Nicholas's smiling face on that sunny day in the early seventies; and I don't think I ever will.