Post by The Washroom Attendant on Jan 27, 2018 18:29:43 GMT -5
The night of January 27, 1972, was freezing, frigid winter winds whistling down the garbage-strewn streets of the East Village. Snow was on the way. Down on Avenue B, two young patrolmen were walking their beat. Greg Foster, who was 22, was black. Rocco Laurie, a year older, was white. The two had served together as Marines in Vietnam and, as close friends, had received permission to be partners, patrolling one of New York’s most dangerous and drug-infested neighborhoods.
The two were walking south along Avenue B around 10:30 p.m. when they noticed a car parked in front of a hydrant. They ducked into a luncheonette across the street, the Shrimp Boat, and asked the owner if he knew the car. He stepped outside, glanced at it and shook his head, no. Satisfied, Foster and Laurie turned and began to walk back north. As they did, three black men passed, parting to allow the officers to walk between them. One of the men wore a long black coat, another a green fatigue jacket and a black Australian-style bush hat.
A moment after the officers passed, the three men turned and drew pistols, a .38 automatic and two 9-millimeter automatics. Foster and Laurie were a few strides away when the three men began firing directly into their backs. Foster was hit eight times and fell in a heap onto the icy pavement. Six bullets hit Rocco Laurie. All but one struck his arms and legs, but the last pierced his neck, and he staggered forward, clutching at his throat before dropping to his knees and falling, slowly, on his side. As the two men lay dying, their three assassins marched calmly toward them. A witness later claimed one of the shooters hollared, “Shoot ‘em in the balls,” and as the trio stood over the fallen officers, all three again opened fire.
Three bullets were fired directly into Greg Foster’s eyes; two more were shot into Rocco Laurie’s groin. When both men lay still, two of the assassins reached down and wrenched loose their pistols. They then ran toward a waiting Chrysler, while the third man, apparently intoxicated by the moment, reportedly danced a jig over the dead man’s bodies, firing his pistol into the air Wild West-style. Startled to be left behind, he ran off alone, disappearing into the night.
The whine of police sirens echoed within minutes, and the first officers to respond, several answering a disturbance call two blocks away, were quickly on the scene. The sight that met them was stomach-turning. Greg Foster’s head had been destroyed; a sludge of blood and brain matter formed a three-foot long puddle around his corpse. Rocco Laurie had been shot to pieces, bullet wounds up and down his body. An ambulance took Laurie to Bellevue, where he died. Almost everyone who responded had the same thought: These were planned assassinations, no doubt by the same people who launched the first police attacks in New York eight months before, this so-called Black Liberation Army. It took only a few hours to confirm it. Fingerprints found in the getaway car suggested the assassins were Ronald Carter, Twymon Meyers and at least one other member of the Cleveland cell.
www.politico.com/magazine/story/2015/04/the-untold-story-behind-new-yorks-most-brutal-cop-killing-117207
I was too young to be on the job at the time but I lived 3 blocks away and remember all the RMP's turret lights swirling around my ceiling.
The two were walking south along Avenue B around 10:30 p.m. when they noticed a car parked in front of a hydrant. They ducked into a luncheonette across the street, the Shrimp Boat, and asked the owner if he knew the car. He stepped outside, glanced at it and shook his head, no. Satisfied, Foster and Laurie turned and began to walk back north. As they did, three black men passed, parting to allow the officers to walk between them. One of the men wore a long black coat, another a green fatigue jacket and a black Australian-style bush hat.
A moment after the officers passed, the three men turned and drew pistols, a .38 automatic and two 9-millimeter automatics. Foster and Laurie were a few strides away when the three men began firing directly into their backs. Foster was hit eight times and fell in a heap onto the icy pavement. Six bullets hit Rocco Laurie. All but one struck his arms and legs, but the last pierced his neck, and he staggered forward, clutching at his throat before dropping to his knees and falling, slowly, on his side. As the two men lay dying, their three assassins marched calmly toward them. A witness later claimed one of the shooters hollared, “Shoot ‘em in the balls,” and as the trio stood over the fallen officers, all three again opened fire.
Three bullets were fired directly into Greg Foster’s eyes; two more were shot into Rocco Laurie’s groin. When both men lay still, two of the assassins reached down and wrenched loose their pistols. They then ran toward a waiting Chrysler, while the third man, apparently intoxicated by the moment, reportedly danced a jig over the dead man’s bodies, firing his pistol into the air Wild West-style. Startled to be left behind, he ran off alone, disappearing into the night.
The whine of police sirens echoed within minutes, and the first officers to respond, several answering a disturbance call two blocks away, were quickly on the scene. The sight that met them was stomach-turning. Greg Foster’s head had been destroyed; a sludge of blood and brain matter formed a three-foot long puddle around his corpse. Rocco Laurie had been shot to pieces, bullet wounds up and down his body. An ambulance took Laurie to Bellevue, where he died. Almost everyone who responded had the same thought: These were planned assassinations, no doubt by the same people who launched the first police attacks in New York eight months before, this so-called Black Liberation Army. It took only a few hours to confirm it. Fingerprints found in the getaway car suggested the assassins were Ronald Carter, Twymon Meyers and at least one other member of the Cleveland cell.
www.politico.com/magazine/story/2015/04/the-untold-story-behind-new-yorks-most-brutal-cop-killing-117207
I was too young to be on the job at the time but I lived 3 blocks away and remember all the RMP's turret lights swirling around my ceiling.