Forty-five Days

The short Philly life of Beau Zabel.

by Mike Newall

Michael T. Regan REMEMBERING A STRANGER: A memorial sits where Beau Zabel fell. (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

Beau Zabel lived in Philadelphia for 45 days. The Minnesota native came here to teach poor children, and died a stranger in a city he barely knew, killed for his iPod just steps from where he lived.

45 Days. A shared apartment with a roommate he found on roommates.com, a summer job at Starbucks and wide-eyed excitement over his slot in the Philadelphia Teaching Fellows Program. He would teach high-school mathematics to public schoolers while earning his graduate degree at Drexel University.

"Beau loved it here, and didn't know a soul, and died," Zabel's roommate told the Inquirer.

He didn't know a soul at Connie's Ric Rac theater on Ninth Street, around the corner from the 800 block of Ellsworth Street where Zabel was shot once in the neck walking home from a late shift at the coffee shop. The theater is a meeting spot for local artists and musicians. Had he been granted the time, Zabel might've gotten to know Frankie Brown, one of the theater's proprietors, an outgoing 31-year-old who lives a few doors down from where Zabel was murdered. Brown and his band, the Discount Heroes, were practicing when they heard the sirens. One of the musician's wives came inside saying someone had been shot. The band decided it was probably two junkies in an argument and played on. They were in a groove.

"I feel terrible about it," says Brown. "He was a neighbor."

He didn't know a soul at the corner tavern at Eighth St. and Washington Ave., just blocks from where Zabel lived and died. The place is a popular drinking spot among local twentysomethings.

"Naw, he's never been in here," says Dom, the daytime bartender. "I read he was saving money for rent and school."

Some of the regulars were upset the bar was mentioned in a Daily News article concerning the murder, not wanting their spot to be associated with Zabel's death

"I wish he did stop in here the other night," says Dom, washing a glass. "Maybe someone was following him and he could've lost them."

He didn't know Jesse Giordano, owner of Captain Jesse's Crab Shack, also at Eighth and Washington. Zabel bought a soda at a vending machine outside Jesse's shop minutes before he died. The cops were waiting for Jesse the next morning, wanting a look at his surveillance tapes:

At 1:21:04 Zabel buys his soda as two young people who look to be about his age walk past heading east on Washington Avenue. The young people are laughing. There are no "hellos" exchanged. No nods of the head. Just strangers passing on a dark street. Zabel heads north on Passyunk Ave. and turns down Ellsworth. Moments later a figure in a white T-shirt sprints around the corner of Ellsworth. He turns down Alter Street, ditches something in a flower pot, retrieves it and then calmly walks away, stuffing whatever it is he briefly hid into his waistband.

Jesse rewinds the video and squints, trying to make out if Zabel was wearing his iPod.

"You can't be wearing those things," he says. "You got to know your surroundings. This is a business area by day but then the nighthawks come out."

Zabel didn't even know a soul on the 800 block of Ellsworth Street, where his life ended in the explosion of a nine millimeter handgun.

There's one of those makeshift shrines at the base of the tree where he died: a smiling graduation photo, two candles, a bag of Starbucks coffee, and some Beanie Baby Dolls. Someone has clipped the low-hanging branches of the tree to allow more light at night. Two garbage bags of clipped branches sit next to the shrine.

"He fell into that doorway," explains a neighbor, who didn't want his name published. "The old lady who lives there heard the noise and tried to open the door but his body was blocking it. Don't you go knocking on her door. She's arguing with all the media. She's scared the shooter will see her house and take vengeance on her."

When the police first arrived at the scene, they couldn't find any identification on the gunshot victim laying in the shadows, and nobody in the crowd could put a name to the stranger's face. So the investigators walked a block to another neighborhood bar, where Tony works. Skinny Tony the bartender. Tony knows everyone around here. Maybe he knew this kid.

It was two minutes to 2 a.m., and the bar was quiet. The air conditioner was blasting. Nobody in the place heard anything. Not the shot. Not the sirens. Tony kicked out the handful of regulars, locked the doors and walked with the police down a narrow side-street to the crime scene. They turned the corner and Tony stepped into the pool of blood.

"Hey, watch out!" yelled a cop.

Zabel lay on his side in his blood. He was white as a ghost and his mouth was open. Tony stared at the body for a moment and then, in shock, turned to the police.

"I don't know him," he stammered.

He went back to the bar and cleaned up. An hour passed. His hands were shaking and his conscience nagged. Maybe he could take a second look. Tony walked down the narrow side-street again. Zabel was still lying there. "Tony, we found his wallet," said a cop. "His name was Beau."

"Beau from Minnesota," answered Tony immediately, putting the name and the face together with the I.D. he checked a month earlier when Zabel stopped in the bar for some takeout beer.

A couple of days later, Tony, sitting at a table in the back room of the bar, recalls what he can about Beau from Minnesota — a stranger identified in death by a man he met only briefly.

"He seemed like a nice, polite smiling young man," he says as the daytime bartenders walk past carrying cases of liquor.

Tony looks like a ghost: pale, jittery and teary-eyed.

"I watched the cops that night," he continues after a moment, "and they were fantastic, very concerned and committed to finding whoever did this. But this is on all of us." Again he stops, his voice catching.

"This wonderful young man chose our city, came here to help our city and this is what happened. I don't have an answer for this, nobody does. But hopefully this touches people and this isn't just another senseless murder in Philadelphia."

Tony has a card the detective at the crime scene gave him in his pocket.

"There's still someone walking around this neighborhood with a nine millimeter," he says.

He wipes his eyes, and the workmen file past carrying the last of the boxes.

(editorial@citypaper.net)