The Biggest Brother

Loomis started in the Fourth District, patrolling the southeast side, and later joined the Strike Force, which handles violent and high-profile crimes. Over the years, he developed an approach tailored to his strengths. "Steve screws with everybody," says Patrolman Carl Perkins.

He liked to put rookies in the back of his car, lock the windows open, then drive through a car wash. He'd play video games with kids after responding to disturbance calls, basketball with boys on the street. "What, you think a fat guy can't shoot hoops?" he would say, hoisting jumpers.

"I'd just sit back on the hood and laugh," recalls Detective Larry Russell, who worked in the Fourth. "He loved that look on their face. Is this really happening?"

But there was a strategy at work. Once, Perkins watched Loomis tell a driver to turn his music down. When the guy accused Loomis of picking on him because he was black, Loomis replied, "I love black guys!" He pointed to Perkins, who's black. "This is my boyfriend. We spoon every night!"

"The guy just shut up," Perkins recalls, laughing. "We didn't have to argue with this guy. He just looked at [Loomis] like 'This motherfucker's crazy.'"

Loomis' demeanor paid dividends as a sleuth. He was "the designated 'talk guy' of Strike Force," recalls Russell. "He could sit on the phone with victims for 45 minutes and just have a conversation." Those victims sometimes turned into Loomis' best sources. "These people had his cell-phone number," Russell says. "None of us gave out our cell-phone numbers. They all had it."

But over the years, Loomis discovered some were unworthy of his patience and playfulness. The longer he worked, the more he believed bosses were watching out for themselves and not their officers. He found himself picking up the radio when a dispatcher would send too few officers on a call, or scrawling angry letters when the mayor talked of layoffs.

"He was doing what he does now when he was in uniform on the road," Russell says. "He was taking care of policemen."

Others see it differently: "He was always a malcontent," says one cop, who's afraid of running afoul of union leadership. "He liked to pick fights with bosses, just to pick a fight."

The department's skewed politics were never more evident than in fall of 2003, Loomis says. After the much-hyped disappearance of 11-year-old Shakira Johnson, Loomis was assigned to investigate a related case. A convicted rapist who lived near Shakira had been dragged from his home by a group of men and interrogated. Police believed the vigilantes were from the Nation of Islam. They arrested several men who they thought were terrorizing the neighborhood in search of Shakira's abductor, including one who worked in the city's Public Safety Office. Even the neighborhood's resident thugs were running scared, Loomis says. "They had the dope boys so terrified."

Loomis feared Mayor Jane Campbell would give the men a pass as part of her ongoing quest to court black leaders and to avoid the embarrassment of having a staffer go to jail. He says McGrath, Fourth District commander at the time, assured support if Loomis could make a case. So he did. "We had 'em dead nuts," he says. "There was no wiggle room. There was no way out."

But the city prosecutor dropped the charges, ruling insufficient evidence.

"They knew we had them nailed, and it was a political embarrassment," Loomis huffs. "It was just complete political bullshit."

That same year, Cleveland's cops faced a decision that would test their storied brotherhood. Recession was pounding the city, and Campbell was trying to balance a shrinking budget. It was time, she believed, for police and firefighters to sacrifice.

They were given a choice: Face massive layoffs numbering in the hundreds of jobs, or take concessions so that some might be spared. The EMS union cut a deal to save 21 jobs. Firefighters followed, slashing $4 million from their budget to save 80 jobs.

But police were led by a no-nonsense cop with one gear -- full-blast -- and one goal: defending cops under any circumstances. As a patrolman, Bob Beck took a bullet and was named Officer of the Year. He was elected union president in 1990 and over the years became famous for public jousts with City Hall. Former Mayor Mike White's picture adorned a punching bag in his office.