February 26, 1988, 3:30 in the morning, South Jamaica, Queens. Officer Edward Burn sits alone in his patrol car, 22 years old, 7 months on the job. His father’s an NYPD cop following in those footsteps, living that legacy. He’s parked at 107th Avenue and Inwood Street.
Not answering calls, not chasing suspects, just sitting, watching a house. Protection detail for a witness who kept calling the cops about drug dealers on his block. That house got firebombed twice. So they sent the rookie to guard it alone. A car pulls up, engine idling. Two men step out. Two stay inside as lookouts. One walks to the passenger window, knocks on the glass. Burn turns his head.
Five shots, all fatal. David McCclary pulls the trigger. Todd Scott distracts him at the window. The car speeds off into the darkness of Queens. 7 months into his career, Edward Burns life ends in a patrol car doing what his department asked him to do. The hit cost $8,000. The order came from a man sitting in a jail cell on Riker’s Island.
A man who’d been disrespected 10 days earlier. A man who told a cop to put his beer in a paper bag and lost his mind over it. Howard Mason, street name, Papy. This is how a beer on a corner becomes a cop killing. This is how disrespect turns into a life sentence. This is how one of the most feared men in New York City destroyed himself over 10 seconds of wounded pride.
President Reagan called the family. Vice President Bush carried Burn’s badge during his campaign. The murder shocked the nation and changed the war on drugs forever. But it started with a kid from Alabama who wanted to be Jamaican. A killer who stood 5’8 but had a pitbull’s heart.
A soldier who never broke, never snitched, never bent. This is the story of Papy Mason. Howard Mason, born September 8th, 1959, Alabama roots. But Queens is where the legend gets built. 13 years old when he joins the Jolly Stompers. A kid looking for family in a city that don’t give handouts. And somewhere along the way, Howard Mason becomes something else.
He adopts Jamaican culture so deep that people on the street think he is Jamaican. speaks in PWA, walks the walk, lives the life. It’s not costume, it’s transformation. They start calling him Papy, 5 foot8, not big, not imposing on paper. But there’s something about Papy Mason that makes men twice his size step back. Pitbull heart in a regular frame.
The kind of dude that crazy people are scared of. That’s the reputation. That’s the reality. Mid80s crack hits Queens like a hurricane. And Papy links up with the man who’s going to change everything, Lorenzo Nichols. Street name, Fat Cat. Fat Cat’s running an operation pulling in 20 million a year.
Big Max Deli on 150 Street is headquarters. The block is the kingdom. And Papy Papy becomes the enforcer, the soldier, the one you don’t want problems with. 198485 Papy forms his own crew, the Bibos, based out of 40 projects in South Jamaica. They’re pulling 200,000 a month moving cocaine and crack.
Not Supreme Team numbers, but the violence. That’s where the Bibos make their name. Uzzy toteen, ruthless, wearing leather jackets with bibos stitched on the back, speaking Jamaican patto to throw off surveillance, creating their own world inside Queens. July 29th, 1985, the day everything shifts. Police raid Big Macs Delhi.
Fat cats getting arrested. They find 180,000 in cash, guns, heroin, cocaine, marijuana. The whole operation exposed. And as cops walk Fat Cat to the patrol car, Papy creeps up from behind. Gun drawn, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot the cop, ready to free his partner, ready to start a war right there on the street.
Fat Cat turns his head, shakes it. No. Papy backs into the shadows. Gun still in hand. The cop never knows how close he came, but Papy doesn’t forget. After the arrest, he visits Fat Cat’s girlfriend. Gets close. Makes it clear. I don’t know what you know. Papy tells her, but Cat says, “You better forget it.” That’s the message.
That’s the code. Loyalty above everything. Violence when necessary. Fear is currency. Fat cats locked up, but Papy’s still on the street, still moving, still building the legend. The Bibos are his now. The reputation grows. In one of the most violent eras New York City ever saw, Papy Mason stands out, not because he’s the biggest, because he’s the most feared.
And fear in Queens during the crack epidemic is the only thing that matters. October 10th, 1985, 6 weeks after Fat Cat’s arrest, the organization needs to send a message. Brian Rooney, New York State parole officer. Four years on the job. The kind of officer who actually gives a damn. When he picks up parole violators, he puts his own money into their commissary accounts trying to help, trying to make a difference.
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He’s got an 18-month-old son at home, Thomas. A kid who’s about to grow up without a father. Rooney’s the one who violated Fat Cat’s parole sent him back to prison. And from his cell, Fat Cat makes a decision. $5,000. That’s the price. The order goes out to his lieutenants, Papy Mason and Chris Williams.
Fat Cat would claim later he only wanted Rooney roughed up. Wanted him to miss a crucial hearing. That’s the story he’d tell. But the streets no different. This wasn’t about sending a message. This was about sending the message. You violate us, you die. Perry Bellamy makes the call. He’s fat cat crew, part of the operation. He tells Rooney he’s got information, something important.
Needs to meet Basley Park, Queens. Come alone. Rooney responds because that’s what good parole officers do. They follow leads. They show up. They try to help. He pulls up in his vehicle. Doesn’t see it coming. Another car approaches. Papy Mason and Chris Williams inside. They roll up to Rooney’s car.
No hesitation, no conversation. Papy draws his weapon, fires repeatedly. Rooney’s killed behind the wheel. The execution is swift, professional, cold. Back home, Thomas Rooney is 18 months old. Too young to remember his father’s face. Too young to understand why daddy’s not coming home. He’ll grow up with photographs and stories from people who knew Brian.
But he’ll never know the man who put his own money in strangers commissaries. The man who believed in second chances. The message lands heavy across Queens. Every cop, every parole officer, every prosecutor crossed the fat cat organization and this is what happens. They’ll find you. They’ll kill you. Doesn’t matter if you’re just doing your job.
Weeks later, Queen’s detectives arrest Papy Mason for Rooney’s murder. They’ve got Perry Bellamy statement. The same Perry Bellamy who set up the meeting. He’s cooperating now telling everything. His voice on tape. They was all there when the PO got killed. Papy, he just opened fire. Papy got him. That [ __ ] was swift. The police want Papy to flip.
Want him to give up Fat Cat. Want him to break the code. They offer him deals, lighter time, protection, a way out. Papy’s response is simple. I ain’t no Perry Bellamy. He refuses to cooperate, refuses to snitch, refuses to break street law, even when facing life. That refusal, that’s what builds legends.
In prison culture, that’s what separates soldiers from survivors. Papy joins Fat Cat in Queen’s House of Detention. His reputation grows behind bars. Word spreads. Papy don’t break. Papy don’t talk. Papy solid. While locked up during a visit at Riker, Papy gives Philip Copeland a $40,000 gold and diamond ring shaped like Africa right off his finger.
Take care of future Bibo Ventures. He says the crew stays loyal. The organization stays intact. Even from inside, Papy’s still running things, still giving orders, still building the empire. One murder down, the biggest one still coming. January 1986, the trial begins. The prosecutions got Perry Bellamy’s tape confession, his voice describing the murder.
They was all there when the PO got killed. Papy, he just opened fire. Papy got him. That [ __ ] was swift, clear, detailed, damning. But there’s a problem. Perry Bellamy won’t testify in person. Won’t take the stand. Won’t face Papy in court. Just the tape, just the voice. No live witness pointing fingers from the stand.
Before trial even starts, the word on the street is clear. There’s not a single soul who’s going to come in and testify against that boy. That’s the reality in Queens. That’s the power of Papy’s reputation. Fear keeps mouths shut. Loyalty keeps people solid. Nobody’s willing to sit in that witness chair and look Papy in the eye.
The jury deliberates. They hear the tape. They see the evidence. But without a live witness, without someone willing to testify face to face, doubt creeps in. The jury can’t reach a verdict. Hung jury. The case falls apart. Papy walks. February 1988, two years after the trial, Papy makes bail, steps out of the courthouse, free man beat a murder charge, and as he’s leaving, he does something that becomes legendary, something that shows exactly who Py Mason is.
He turns to the prosecutor, forms his hand into a gun, thumb up, index finger extended, points it directly at the prosecutor’s face, and pulls the trigger. Click. The imaginary bullet fires. The message delivered. Not in words, in gesture. Pure disrespect. Pure threat. Pure papy. The prosecutor watches. Can’t do anything about it.
Papy’s walking out free. The courts couldn’t hold him. The system couldn’t break him. And now he’s making sure everyone knows it. 10 days. That’s how long Papy lasts on the street. 10 days of freedom after beating a murder charge. 10 days before everything falls apart. During those 10 days, he’s organizing, making moves, calling shots.
The Bibos are still operational. The money’s still flowing. Papy’s back in control. But he’s also got something else bubbling underneath. Pride, ego, the belief that he’s untouchable. That belief, that’s what destroys him. Because in those 10 days, Papy’s going to have an encounter, a small moment, a nothing interaction with a beat cop on a South Jamaica corner.
The kind of thing that happens a thousand times a day in New York City. A cop tells someone to put their beer away. Normal day, normal police work. But when it happens to Papy Mason, when a cop disrespects the man who just beat a murder charge, when someone tells Papy Mason what to do after he just walked out of court throwing finger guns at prosecutors, that small moment becomes a national tragedy.
That nothing interaction becomes the reason a 22year-old rookie cop dies in his patrol car. That brief exchange on a corner becomes the event that changes American drug policy forever. Papy’s 10 days of freedom are about to end. And when they do, they’ll end in blood. They’ll end with President Reagan on the phone.
They’ll end with Vice President Bush carrying a badge. They’ll end with Papy Mason getting life without parole. But right now, right now, he’s free. Right now, he’s powerful. Right now he’s untouchable. Right now he’s about to make the biggest mistake of his life over a beer and a cop who won’t back down. South Jamaica street corner.
Papy’s drinking a beer in public. Been free for a few days. Feeling untouchable. Feeling like the king who beat the system. A beat cop approaches. They call him the Iceman. just doing his job. Sees Papy with the beer. Makes a simple request. Do me a favor. Don’t drink beer in front of me. Put it in a paper bag. Hide it.
Show some discretion. The kind of thing cops say a 100 times a day. The kind of thing most people comply with just to avoid hassle. But Papy ain’t most people. Do you know who I am? Papy demands. I just beat a murder charge. I just walked out of court throwing finger guns at prosecutors.
You don’t tell me what to do. The Iceman doesn’t flinch. Looks papy dead in the eye and responds, “Yeah, the guy who’s going to put his beer in a paper bag.” The disrespect lands like a slap in front of people on his corner. After everything Papy represents, this cop is talking to him like he’s nobody. [ __ ] you. Papy screams.
The shoving starts. Hands pushing. Voices raised. Then it stops. Papy walks off. His beer drops. Spills on the pavement. He’s walking away. But the rage is building. When Papy gets distance, the words come. That cop has to die. He dissed me. Not a threat, a declaration. That cop disrespected Papy Mason on his own corner after he beat a body that can’t stand. Death threats follow.
The ICE man starts hearing things. NYPD pulls him from patrol protection detail. They know Papy’s reputation. They know what happened to Brian Rooney. One week later, Papy’s gun case gets remanded. Court sends him back to Rikers. 10 days of freedom over back behind bars. But now he’s sitting in a cell with nothing but time and rage and wounded pride eating at him. from Rikers.
Papy makes calls, reaches out to Philip Copelan, street name Marshall, one of his most trusted soldiers. The conversations happen, the plan forms, the order comes down. We lose one, they lose one. The organization lost Brian Rooney’s case. The cops came after them. So now they send a message back.
Show the police that the Bibos don’t back down. that you can’t disrespect Papy Mason without consequences. But the Iceman is protected off the streets, unreachable. So, the order evolves. The target changes. It’s not about killing that specific cop anymore. It’s about killing any cop. Any cop will do. The message doesn’t need to be personal.
It needs to be loud. $8,000. That’s the contract. Find a cop. Kill a cop. Send a message. Make it public. Make it brutal. Make it clear that the Bibos run Queens, not the NYPD. Marshall gets the order. He starts recruiting. Needs shooters, needs lookouts, needs soldiers willing to kill a cop for eight grand split between them.
In 1988, Queens in the middle of the crack epidemic. Finding young killers willing to do it isn’t hard. Four men sign up. David Mccclary, Todd Scott, Scott Cobb, and Marshall himself. They start watching patrol patterns, hunting for the perfect target, an isolated cop, alone, vulnerable, someone they can hit fast and get away clean.
They find officer Edward Burn, 22 years old, sitting in his car, protecting a witness, alone on a corner, perfect target. The order came from wounded pride. The execution’s about to shock a nation. February 26th, 1988, 3:30 in the morning. Edward Burns been sitting in his patrol car for hours. 107 Avenue and Inwood Street, South Jamaica, Queens, Cold Night, Quiet Street, just him and the radio.
22 years old, 7 months into his NYPD career. Before this, he worked transit police. His father’s a cop, too. Family business, family legacy. Eddie’s proud to wear the badge. Proud to follow those footsteps. Tonight’s assignment is simple. Protection detail. Guard the house of Arjun, a Gy immigrant who kept calling police about dealers on his block. The dealers didn’t appreciate it.
Firebomb his house twice. So NYPD sends Eddie to sit outside. Make sure nothing happens. Show presence. Protect the witness. He’s alone. No backup. No partner, just a rookie in a marked car on a dark corner. A vehicle approaches, slows down, parks nearby. Four men inside, David McCclary, Philip Copelan, Todd Scott, Scott Cobb.
They’ve been driving around looking for a target. Any cop will do. Eddie Burn just happens to be the one they find. Two men exit. Two stay in the car as lookouts. Todd Scott approaches the passenger window, knocks on the glass. Eddie turns his head. Maybe thinks someone needs help. Maybe thinks it’s a resident with information.
Maybe doesn’t think at all. Just reacts. David McCclary steps up, raises his weapon, fires. One shot, two, three, four, five. Fatal shots at close range. No warning, no words, no hesitation. The execution is swift and brutal. The car speeds off. Eddie Burns slumps in his seat. Blood on the windshield.
Radio still crackling. The witness’s house still standing behind him. The job he was sent to do left unfinished because the job got him killed. Back at the burn house, Eddie’s parents sleep. His three brothers sleep. His father, the NYPD veteran, has no idea his son just died doing the same job he does.
The knock on the door comes later. The notification, the worst moment any cop’s family can experience. The news spreads fast. Rookie cop killed in his car. Execution style. Ordered by a drug dealer in jail over a beer confrontation. The story so brazen, so cold, so calculated that it becomes national news within hours.
6 days. That’s how long it takes to catch all four killers. NYPD floods South Jamaica. Every detective, every resource, every contact on the street gets pressed. Tips come in, names surface. David McCclary, Todd Scott, Scott Cobb, Philip Copelan. All four arrested within a week. Scott Cobb breaks first, gives a videotape confession, graphic details, tells how they planned it, how they executed it, how they bragged about it afterward.
The confession plays at trial. Jurors watch a young man describe murdering a cop like it was nothing, like it was just another night in Queens. President Ronald Reagan picks up the phone, calls the Burn family personally, offers condolences from the Oval Office. Vice President George HW Bush takes it further, carries Eddie Burns badge with him during his entire 1988 presidential campaign.
Uses it as a symbol, a reminder, a call to action. March 7th, 1988, 9 days after the murder, NYPD creates the Tactical Narcotics Team, TNT, specialized units designed to dismantle drug operations in South Jamaica and across the city. Direct response to Eddie’s death. Congress acts two creates the Edward Burn Memorial Justice Assistance Grant Program, federal funding for drug enforcement, billions of dollars, Eddie’s name on legislation, his death changing policy, his murder becoming the turning point in America’s war on drugs. March 29th and 30th, 1989. Three of the killers go to trial. First, Philip
Copelan, Todd Scott, Scott Cobb, Queens Supreme Court, Justice Thomas Demikos presiding. The prosecution plays Scott Cobb’s videotape confession. Jurors watch him describe the murder in graphic detail. Watch him explain how they bragged about it afterward. How killing a cop was just another night’s work.
Both juries convict. seconddegree murder, criminal possession of a weapon, all three sentenced to 25 years to life. June 6th, 1989, David McClary’s turn. The shooter, the one who actually pulled the trigger. Separate trial, same result, convicted. Same charges, same sentence. 25 to life.
All four killers are down. Now the feds want the man who gave the order. November 1989, Papy Mason’s federal rakateeering trial begins. He goes in alone. No codefendants, just Papy versus the United States government. His lawyer, Harry Butchelder, tries an insanity defense. Tries to argue Papy’s not mentally competent. It doesn’t work.
Papy gets violent in court. Outbursts, disruptions, can’t control himself or won’t control himself. The judge makes a decision. isolates him. Papy boycots his own trial, refuses to sit in the courtroom. Instead, he follows the proceedings through a speaker system in his cell, listening to witnesses describe his crimes, listening to the case being built against him.
Scott Cobb testifies, says he knew in advance about Papy’s plan to kill a cop. The videotape confession plays again. The evidence stacks up. The witnesses keep coming. Papy listens from his cell and sethes. December 11th, 1989. The verdict. Guilty. Federal charges, including ordering officer Edward Burns murder.
Papy Mason is convicted. But the legal battle isn’t over. Four years of wrangling. 1989 to 1994. questions about mental competency, appeals, delays, psychiatric evaluations, the system grinding slowly toward the inevitable conclusion. His mother gets indicted too, facing charges related to the organization.
Papy’s response shows his mindset. My mother knows about white people. She said God will make a way. About his own trial, Papy’s words are clear. They did me wrong. Jaw is good. It was no trial. It was a KKK meeting for real. That was not an indictment. That was the government. He never accepts responsibility. Never shows remorse.
Never breaks character. Solid to the end. 1994, 5 years after conviction. The legal questions are settled. The competency battles are over. Federal judge delivers the sentence. Life in prison. No parole, no release, no second chances. One month after Eddie Burns murder, Papy had already been sentenced to 7 years on the gun charges.
The Daringer case, that sentence means nothing now. Life is life. The four shooters still locked up. Todd Scott denied parole in 2024. David mccclary denied in 2025. They’ve been in prison for 36 years. They’ll likely die there. Papy’s been locked up even longer. Everyone who touched the burn murder is still paying, still serving, still locked away from the world they tried to terrorize.
Papy Mason sits in federal prison. Location classified, moving through the system like a ghost. They don’t keep him in one place long. Too dangerous, too high profile, too connected. Tails come out of the joint. Papy battling goon squads, fighting cell extraction teams. Described as strong as an ox and still ready to go to war even after decades inside.
He never broke, never testified, never cooperated. That code he lived by on the streets, he carries it into the prison system, solid until the end. But while Papy stays silent, the streets keep talking specifically about his partner, Lorenzo. Fat Cat Nicholls. 1992. Fat Cat pleads guilty. Brian Rooney’s murder. Other charges.
Gets 40 years federal. Could have been life. The sentence is lighter because he agreed to cooperate with authorities. Then Fat Cat disappears. enters witness protection. 1990 to 2006, 16 years. Location unknown. Ghost in the system. The New York Times reports he’s cooperating. Other papers confirm it. The streets start talking.
Did Fat Cat snitch on Papy? Did the partner betray the soldier? Here’s the complicated truth. No court transcripts show Fat Cat testifying against Papy. No paperwork, no trial testimony. Papy himself says Fat Cat didn’t tell on him. Fat Cat did testify against Supreme Team, against Gerald Miller, but against his own crew, against Papy. No evidence exists.
But he cooperated enough to get in witness protection. That’s undeniable. So, did he snitch or didn’t he? Depends. Who you ask, depends how you define it. 50 Cent puts it in a lyric that becomes legendary. I used to idolize cat. Hurt me in my heart to hear that snitched on pap. How he go out like that. The line reflects street belief.
The narrative that fat cat broke code. Whether it’s true or not almost doesn’t matter. The perception became reality in hip-hop culture. And Papy Papy becomes immortal in rap lyrics. Nas on the world is yours. React like I’m facing time like Papy Mason. Ilmatic 1994 classic album. Papy’s name in the verses. Nas again on Get Down.
New York streets where killers will walk like pistol Pete and Papy Mason. God’s son 2002. Jay-Z references him. Cora spits. My feet stand on pavement once felt by Papy Mason. Kendrick Lamar drops his name in a 2013 BET cipher. R. Kelly. The combination of Papy Mason and Larry Davis. International rappers pick it up.
Serbian rapper Struka, French rapper Boua. The legend goes global. Irv Gotti said it best about Southeast Queens hustlers. They was legends. Myths like urban legends myths. Meanwhile, Eddie Burns legacy grows, too. August 3rd, 1995, police officer Edward Burn Park opens in Queens.
91 Avenue gets renamed PO Edward RBurn Avenue. The Police Athletic League Queens Center becomes the Edward Burn Institute. Junior High School 101 in the Bronx takes his name. His high school dedicates a baseball field to him. Every year, NYPD holds a ceremony at the intersection where he died. His three brothers all became law enforcement officers, carrying on what Eddie started, honoring what he died for.
The numbers tell the story. 22 years old. 7 months a cop, 10 days papy had between hung jury and the order. Five shots to Eddie’s head. 6 days to catch all four killers. $8,000 for a cop’s life. 35 plus years. All five men still locked up. Life sentence with no parole, no release, no freedom.
Papy wanted to send a message over a beer and disrespect. He sent one, just not the one he intended. He showed the world what happens when pride costs everything. When 10 seconds of ego destroys a lifetime. When a king becomes a cautionary tale.
