ATLANTIC CITY -- Officer Bill Wenz used to see the same people every night as he worked midnights: those who made the Boardwalk their home.
They would get moved along or, sometimes, picked up for causing a disturbance.
But they were never gone long.
"All they knew was to come back to the Boardwalk," he said.
Then, he had a question: "Why don't we try to help them?"
Now, Wenz is the face of the Police Department for the city's homeless, working with the Atlantic City Rescue Mission, AtlantiCare and several social service agencies to get them off the streets and the help they need.
His new beat also helps meet the "clean and safe" objective Gov. Chris Christie set when he introduced the Tourism District more than a year ago.
"It helps everybody out," Wenz said.
Since December, Wenz and Rescue Mission outreach worker Lou Gasparini have catalogued more than 120 people they have interacted with on the street.
"Every single one of these people got connected with some service in some way," Gasparini said as he thumbed through the thick binder that has names and other information about those they have met in the past three months.
Wenz credits his supervisor, Capt. Tom Coholan, with allowing him to be removed from answering 911 calls and do what he could to help the homeless.
"I've been doing outreach for three years, and it's never gone as smoothly as it has with him," Gasparini said.
From the beginning, Gasparini had trust on the street. For eight years, he lived among them due to addiction before getting out about three years ago.
But the homeless are often distrustful of someone in a uniform.
"He's changed all that," Gasparini said. "The man has not only respect for the people, he's a natural at this."
That is without any formal social service training, Sgt. Monica McMenamin notes. "It's pure care and compassion."
It begins with the approach. While some people are obviously living on the streets, others may be able to hide it -- at least for a while.
The man sitting on the Boardwalk bench could easily blend in with the others enjoying the beautiful summerlike weather last week. His jeans and short-sleeve shirt were clean. A bag sat next to him.
But Wenz took note.
"I'll check to see if he's there tomorrow or the next day," Wenz said as he slowly drove his patrol car down the wooden walkway.
Only time will tell whether the man is a tourist or in the beginning stages of homelessness.
"It's a fine line," Wenz said. "You'll see someone in the same clothes, with the same bags getting dirtier and dirtier."
Driving farther down the Boardwalk, Wenz is still looking. Scanning faces. Seeing if there are any familiar to him.
The benches were filled and the walkway crowded Wednesday, with record-breaking temperatures. But none of the many people there appeared homeless.
"Not bad, huh, Lou?" Wenz asks.
"Good job, Wenzie," he replies.
Wenz sees Fanny, who sings Gospel music, and yells a big hello.
"God bless you," she says, after ending her last note.
"She blesses everyone," he says.
Legal begging
Then there is a woman near Resorts Casino Hotel sitting in a wheelchair shaking a cup with money. A green identification card is visible. It's her city permit to panhandle.
Slightly farther down, on the other side of Resorts by Hard Rock Cafe, sits a man in a wheelchair. He has a permit, too, and a sign identifying him as a Vietnam War veteran.
"I don't know why they did that," Wenz says of allowing legal begging.
For him, it hinders helping.
"I guess they thought it would get rid of them," he said of the ordinance. "But a bunch of them went out and applied."
He parks the car in front of Boardwalk Hall. Gasparini knows this place well. His friend Sherri Farren, 46, was fatally beaten there March 25, 2007, as she and others took shelter. Her killer is serving a 60-year sentence.
"That's what got me out," he says.
Walking down the north tunnel, Wenz and Gasparini point out spots where the homeless used to be. One door where people used to sleep on the steps now has a motion-detector light, they notice. Rooms where homeless would seek shelter are now locked.
But Wenz knows the homeless aren't gone, despite the few sightings this day.
"We're good, but we're not that good," he said.
They keep looking. Under the Boardwalk near Trump Taj Mahal Casino Resort yields just one of the former homeless.
Now working
Don Walker, 56, now works for the Casino Reinvestment Development Authority, cleaning up under the Boardwalk. He never lived here, but instead bounced around among different casinos and bus stops, after he wound up stranded in the city when the company he worked for closed.
"They're the only ones who know almost as much as I do about under the Boardwalk," Walker says of Wenz and Gasparini.
"By the looks of it, Lou, if we have a sweep, we're not gonna get any," Wenz says.
In addition to his daily work, the officer still leads the "outreach at the beach," a monthly sweep for homeless done with volunteers that include Jewish Family Services, an AtlantiCare psychiatric services team and Atlantic County probation.
At one time, the sweeps would get 20 to 40 people, and they would be arrested. Now, each is engaged in conversation. As their reasons for living on the street start to come out, the representative who most meets that need will step forward.
Nine out of 10 will at least go to the Rescue Mission for a meal and a shower. Many are from out of town.
"They call it Greyhound therapy," Coholan says of the practice in which cities put their homeless on a bus with a one-way ticket to Atlantic City.
Now, Atlantic City is also shipping some out, but only to where they want to go -- and where they can get help on the other end.
Wenz recently sent a man home to Wisconsin. A voice mail message left 10 minutes after the young man arrived home says, "Everything's going OK. I'd like to thank you for your help."
"We've been getting other jurisdictions' problems for a long time," Coholan said. "This initiative is basically reversing that trend."
More coming in
But there are still a lot of people coming in, notes Fred Mack, who has been in and out of Atlantic City for all of his 50 years, the last two spent without a home or job.
"Two-thirds of the homeless, I don't know," he says, sitting on a curb by the McDonald's at the foot of the Atlantic City Expressway.
Wenz knew some of his people would be here. He is never without McDonald's food cards in his pocket. It not only helps feed the hungry, it buys him some time to talk to them and get them the help they need.
One man would be belligerent with police, until Wenz would pull up.
"He would run to my car because he knew he was going to get a Big Mac and could blast whatever music he wanted," Wenz said.
That man and one other would account for several calls to 911 each day as they got loud or worried people. Now, both are getting treatment at Ancora Psychiatric Hospital in Winslow Township, Camden County.
"He's an excellent guy," Frank Mulholland says of Wenz. "He looks out for us all. Gets us food and into the Mission. He'll help us before he tries to jam us up or lock us up."
"And he gives us food," Mack said. "Not just McDonald's, either. Home-cooked food. Food his wife made."
Leftovers
Wenz will put leftovers in baggies and bring them around. Her roast was a hit.
He also has made deals with 7-Eleven, where the sandwiches still good enough to eat but not allowed to be sold because of the date on them are given to him. Popeye's -- once overwhelmed with homeless because the manager would give them a dollar -- now gives two buckets of chicken a month for a "picnic" in Brown's Park.
"You can't give them money, but you can always buy them something," Wenz said.
His sister will even make plates for the people she refers to as "your friends up there."
"You get a bad sense of hopelessness out here," Gasparini said. "If you're out here, you likely did something in your life to screw over your family. The street people become your family. It's a very, very strong bond."
And the losses are great.
Craig Giatto, 42, was fatally stabbed Sept. 10 inside the now-razed Boardwalk Apartments.
"He died in my arms," Mack said.
"And I liked the guy who did it," Mulholland said of Louis Lopez, who is charged with the crime.
"I grew up with him," Mack says.
Mulholland has a trimmed white goatee and speaks well. But the smell of alcohol strongly emanates from him. He knows they won't help him get a job until he kicks his drinking problem.
"He's been trying to get me into programs for a long time," Mulholland said of Wenz. "I'm a little stubborn."
But he's starting to relent.
"I may go soon," he said with a slight wink. "I'm getting close."
Sometimes the chance to get off the street comes only once, Gasparini said.
Wenz will keep working.
"There comes a time when your chance comes," Gasparini said. "Sometimes, they're just once in a lifetime.
"Mine came once, and I took it," he added. "Wenzie gives them more than just that one chance."
Copyright 2012 - The Press of Atlantic City, Pleasantville, N.J.
McClatchy-Tribune News Service
