By Gino Mahofski, La Nostra Voce

There are many definitions that describe a snitch.  Most people would compare a snitch to a tattletale, or a person who gives information about someone else to get himself or herself out of trouble.

As a retired investigator, I wish to take the Urban Dictionary’s definition, that is, a person who does some good to disrupt the bad things that happen in neighborhoods.

But when it comes to the practicality of police work, there is always a need to double check informants to find out what was true or not so true, and what the reason was for dishing out the information.  When many sources pointed in the same direction, lights and bells usually went off, making it necessary to open a file.

We always had open files. Gathering facts and data along with hours of observation sparked my co-existence with snitches.

A dealer’s choice

It was a hot summer night, and we were preparing to leave the stationhouse when my partner, Reggie B., got a call from one of his informants.  “Rich P.”, from the Brookline section of Pittsburgh, was selling pharmacy drugs from his home.  “He is holding a lot of pills,” the informant said.  Rich P. was no stranger, and we knew he ran with several bad actors.

Armed with a search warrant, and a few backup detectives from downtown, we hit the house.  An intense search developed.  We finally located a black, 55-gallon plastic bag in the attic crawl space.

The bag was full of pills, liquid drug bottles and vials.  Our snitch’s info was good as usual.

We established that the drugs were stolen during a drug store burglary.  Rich P. was arrested; he was a tight-lipped suspect and we discovered he was not only a dealer but a user as well.  Rich P.’s life continued with arrests, jailhouse stays, and eventually rehabilitation followed by remorse.

A dead end

My partner Geo Mc. and I were cruising through our district when a snitch, aptly nicknamed “Informatrice,” called to let us know that a dealer from the North Side of Pittsburgh was meeting with some Mount Washington people to buy and sell heroin.  The meetup was a gasoline station on West Carson Street near McKees Rocks, Pa.  The North-sider was Stan.  We knew the Mount Washington people, but Stan was new to us.  By Stan’s description he would be noticeable in this area.

We took up a position and awaited the transaction.  No Mount Washington people were sighted.  Several minutes passed, then Stan popped into view.  After waiting a few more minutes, we concluded that a “Bird in the hand would be better than waiting for two in the bush.”  After a short scuffle, Stan was in custody.

Of course, Stan had no idea why he was being harassed.  Our initial search found nothing.  Stepping into the gas station restroom, we found several bags of heroin stashed in a place I’d rather not mention here.  We took him to the office for questioning, but we couldn’t persuade him to talk.

He was not giving up his supplier, so we booked him and sent him off downtown for lockup.

It was clear Stan was more worried about his supplier than he was of his arrest; we soon learned why.

A few weeks later Stan was in a gun battle on the North Side.  There were drugs involved, and he was shot.  I guess it was a year or two later when we learned Stan’s next shootout would be his last. If only he had snitched, the situation could’ve been much different.

 

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