More on Slain Cop

Tomorrow's Behind the Badge will be devoted to Officer Gary Skerski.

Meanwhile, in the spirit that Philly Confidential was launched, we thought it might be worthwhile -- and haunting -- to give you a kinda long glimpse of what is was like reporting Skerski's shooting as the event unfolded.

About 10 p.m., our breaking news pager started buzzing. The page was choppy and gave the wrong address, but the message was stark: "police officer shot, critically wounded during attempted robbery."

With little else to go on, PC bolted out to Castor Avenue and Arrott Street, where the shooting occured. Swarms of police cars raced by, in both directions. Some were chasing possible suspects. Others were going to the scene to secure what was quickly becoming a crowded scene.

Neighbors ambled outside, complaining about the city's gun problem. No one knew Officer Skerski. TV reporters shouted into cell phones and tried to get in the perfect position for their live shot while helicopters furiously hummed overhead. "I betcha he's in the graveyard," one lady yelled out. Just then, a young cop ran towards the cemetary, gun drawn.

The pager went off every few seconds. First, the cops had the suspect on Frankford Avenue. SWAT teams arrived and got him. Turns out they just got another suspect for another crime. Then they definitely had Skerski's killer, this time on Roosevelt Boulevard. Except, well, they didn't.

It inched closer to 11 p.m. and we still had no idea how Skerski was doing. Nothing cryptic came across the pager, so we started thinking positive thoughts. To be sure, PC raced through Frankford and Kensington and North Philly to Temple Hospital.

A swarm of reporters held their usual vigil across the street from the ER. Stone-faced cops stood with folded arms across the street. It was almost midnight. Almost everyone was past deadline, or pretty damn close, which meant lots of impatient sighs and tapping toes.

Still, we thought this story would have a positive outcome. We've covered cops getting wounded before, so we figured the commissioner would come out, issue his usual comments about finding drugs, then guns, then violence, and the officer would be home in a few days.

It was half past midnight when the commissioner, the mayor and a cluster of police officials somberly made their way across the street. Lots of red, teary eyes. Everyone looked drained. Then came the word from the commissioner -- "The officer's been pronounced."

You could've heard a pin drop. The very put together TV reporters, the camermen squinting into their lenses, the print reporters fiddling with their notepads -- we all felt that sickening thud in the pit of our stomachs.

The cops lost a brother. A wife lost her husband. And two little kids lost their hero, their dad. And a guy in a ski mask was running around the city with a shotgun and a semi-automatic. What the hell's wrong with this city.

Posted by david at May 9, 2006 11:30 PM