One of the last places most Baltimore residents would recommend walking at 9 p.m. is in the shadows of downtown's Jones Falls Expressway.

But that's exactly where Denise Perkins can be found once a week. In her stylish beret and full-length brown topcoat, Perkins joins a posse of workers -- including a psychiatrist, nurse and social service counselors -- seeking out the city's chronic homeless.

As manager of the Downtown Partnership's public safety guides, Perkins and the platoon act as a MASH unit, trying to lure the city's needy off the streets the hard way: one person at a time.

As Baltimore redevelopment threatens to push out services downtown to aid the poor, Perkins and her group -- known as Hands in Partnership -- wait for rush hour to die and the poor to find shelter before combing the city's desolate nooks and crannies for those left behind.

They know many by name, approaching cautiously those huddled on downtown benches, storefront coves and steam vents. Maintaining the delicate rapport that they have established on previous nights is critical. This might be the night that one of Baltimore's hopeless -- some living on the streets as long as nine years -- will finally step in from the cold.

"It starts with a wave and a 'Hi,' " Perkins said. "If you push too hard, you can break the relationship."

Perkins and Downtown Partnership safety guides also keep their eyes peeled for the needy they might be able to assist during the day. Through the combined day and night vigils, the partnership -- in cooperation with Baltimore Mental Health Systems -- has identified 60 homeless people in the downtown area since it started in May.

Mental illness frequent

Although the downtown homeless are blamed for the rise in aggressive panhandling and car "smash-and-grab" robberies in Baltimore, a late-night stroll with Perkins and her crew seems to contradict the contention. Many of the up-to-900 downtown poor fed each day at the Our Daily Bread soup kitchen on Cathedral Street have a place to stay off the streets.

The chronic homeless on Perkins' tour suffer from mental illnesses so severe they are unable to seek help, much less commit crimes. Within blocks of their weekly trek, which begins at Charles Center, Perkins and her team face the mental health challenge of the man they know as Louis.

Louis huddles in the alcove of a Charles Street record store. A shopkeeper feeds him in the morning and he grabs lunch from the Our Daily Bread soup kitchen around the corner every afternoon, Perkins said.

As the group of six outreach workers approach Louis, he cowers in the shadows, trying to answer their flurry of questions. He is less than 30 years old and became homeless after leaving adult foster care five years earlier. He is dressed warmly in a hooded sweat shirt covered by a flannel jacket and is familiar to rush-hour motorists crossing the Franklin Street Bridge near St. Paul Street, where he sleeps in a cardboard box.

Michael Drummond, a psychiatrist from Sinai Hospital on the night walk, detects clear signs of mental illness through Louis' repeated response, no matter the question, of "I'm all right" and "God bless you." Drummond could place Louis in a facility tonight, but not without the man's consent.

"Some people don't have it together enough to even know how to apply," adds Mike Susko, a state Department of Social Services counselor on the state's Homeless Outreach Team who is also walking this night.

Nine years on the streets

Blocks away, Arnell sleeps on a bench next to St. Vincent de Paul Church at Front and Lexington streets. Arnell tells counselors that he is 33 and began living on the streets nine years ago, shortly after losing his job.

On this night, he is buried under a mound of blankets and sheets of plastic, his suitcase parked next to the bench. When told that the team can find him a place for the night and get him assistance, Arnell begins babbling about getting his job back as soon as the city fixes the streets.

Arnell declines the aid, leaving Perkins and the troupe to hope for better success on the next nightly visit. Waiting until night falls is critical to keeping the attention of the city's chronic homeless, Perkins said.

"During the day, they're doing their thing, getting food, getting drugs or getting money," Perkins said. "At night, you have a captive audience."

Perkins recalls meeting a man who lived in a vacant Fells Point warehouse each week on the tour. One night, the man startled her: "He said, 'I can't take it no more, I'm going with you,' " recalled Perkins, who helped him into a mental health program.

Such successes, however, are few because of the two anchors that keep the homeless on the streets: mental illness and alcohol and drug addiction.

Lack of services

Quincy Fenner, a state counselor joining Perkins on the night patrol, acknowledges that keeping many from returning to the streets is a struggle. Once homeless himself, Fenner estimates that he has helped about 100 people off the streets during his three years of night patrols. The patrols began with the state Homeless Outreach Team, which works in conjunction with partnership efforts. Nine of 10 return to the streets, he estimates.

Part of the problem is the lack of permanent housing. Once a homeless person is sent to a shelter, he or she usually must find alternative housing within a month. Susko and Fenner contend that more time is needed for people to adjust to regular living and taking care of themselves.

Baltimore has made strides to provide more transitional housing in the city, including plans to add 200 spaces by the end of the year. Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke hopes to find enough city money to establish more single-room apartment complexes, like those in New York and San Diego, to clear the streets of homeless.

For now, homeless advocates say the city's estimated 633 transitional beds fall far short of meeting the needs of up to 1,200 nightly shelter residents.

"If you walk in and say you need treatment, we can get you the treatment, a room and a job," said Greg Shupe, administrator for the state's Homeless and Environmental Services in Baltimore. "If you and 100 of your buddies walk in, we've got problems."

With a $60,000 mortgage, Fenner purchased a house and started The Risk Foundation, a group home for homeless people who help each other maintain the habits needed to live productive lives.

Today, about 20 people participate in the program and help Fenner develop strategies to address homelessness. The foundation motto is: "If you are willing to go to any length to get well then we are willing to go to any length to help you."

Many of the people Fenner comes across, however, are unable to free themselves of addiction. During the walk, Perkins and company come across William, a former veteran and alcoholic who sits under the glare of City Hall Plaza lights nursing a broken foot he suffered during a recent beating by thugs. William, a familiar face on the night patrols, has been through several programs, including the highly acclaimed Maryland Center for Veterans Education and Training Inc. in East Baltimore. But William has been unable to beat his addiction, Fenner said.

Dealing with street dwellers like William every night reinforces the frustration that advocates face trying to eradicate homelessness: the inability to lift those who refuse help.

As their nightly tour of duty ends and they return to Charles Center, Perkins and her friends have little success to report to other colleagues who have grouped in packs of six and fanned out into other regions of downtown. But they hope that through one contact tonight, another homeless person might be taken off the streets tomorrow.

On his way to meet the group, Susko talked with Philip, a 39-year-old homeless man who thinks he might be ready to get off the streets.

"You can't make somebody go in," Philip said. "But I'm glad to run into Mike because he encourages me to keep trying."

Pub Date: 3/08/99