By Dennis Beyer
This article is a reprint of my original post regarding a tragic shooting in Newark. I have decided to re-post the story in its' original format on the anniversary date of this incident. That story follows:
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It was 1974 and I was struggling to make ends meet. I was now working in the Probation Departments' Pre-Sentence Investigations Section. We prepared reports for the court, so judges could impose their sentences on those individuals who definitely were not the "pillars of the community." My job gave me quite a bit of time "in the field." I was constantly traveling from one end of the County to the other. That was great for the expense account and paying the bills.
On April 2, 1974 my daughter Cathy was born. She's 29 now. How time flies, especially when you can't count. Sometime after Cathy's birth I "got a tip" that I could find some nice cobble stone to place around the plant bed in front of my house. They would make a nice addition, and were free. I just had to get myself into an isolated area near US 1. Under an overpass was a small embankment containing "my" landscape blocks. The first problem I encountered was they were heavy. I could only move half in one trip. The second problem was NPD showed up.
The Officer, riding alone, wanted my ID, and to know what I was doing. I couldn't make up a good story so I tried the truth. It seems the person who told me about these blocks also told the officer I might be around that location, and to "look out" for me."
The Officer busted my chops real good, then asked, with a huge grin, if I was done. I told him "No." I intended to get the rest of the pile. He, smiled, and said, He'd be back the next day to "watch out for me." One day later I had all "my" blocks, and 34 years later they are still around my old homestead. I remember those blocks, and meeting the "Snowman."
John Snow was assigned to traffic patrol. He routinely covered US 1 near Newark Airport. He used a "CB" radio and talked to the truck drivers. "Snowman" was his "handle." Those two afternoons were the only contacts I had with with this man.
In 1976 I heard his name mentioned on the radio. It was August and Friday the 13th. John was making a delivery of cash to a Bank when he was robbed. Gunfire took his life that day.
I really did not know the man, but I smile every time I think of those blocks. That smile soon fades when I remember Aug. 13 1976.
