Circle of Six (17 page)

“High road, Amby?”

He didn't let me finish. “No one wants the case, Randy. And you know why? Because it's unsolvable. Decisions were made that day that changed the outcome of the case, forever.” He emphasized the word
forever
. “The crime scene, witnesses, and perps, all erased behind those orders. You know who gave those orders? We gave those orders, the police department, and let's
not forget we apologized for it. You starting to follow me, Partner?”

I knew what he was getting at. Since the very beginning of the case, the job maintained that Phil Cardillo either shot himself or was hit with friendly fire. Why? Because then they wouldn't have to investigate into the murder. The public may have thought it was to cover their own asses, hide their ineptitude. But my guess was that no investigation was permitted because Farrakhan stamped his feet and said there wouldn't be an investigation. So basically, to start a proper case, the catching detective would first have to prove deception by the NYPD. In other words, the investigator would have to say the job was wrong in asserting friendly fire and that they made damning and career altering mistakes by pulling the men from the crime scene. The catching detective would have to go nose-to-nose with the job, tarnish it further, then he'd have to go against the politically crazed Farrakhan and The Nation of Islam to catch the killer. According to Amby, that would be a dumb move.

We stopped on 116th Street and Lenox Avenue, simultaneously realizing we were on the corner where the mosque stood. Amby stared at the double doors. Three icy FOI men stood guard, just like they always had, except on the day in question. He said, “That place—the case—is an unbeatable motherfucker of a foe. You've made the job work for you. You have a future. It doesn't start here, Randy. It ends here.”

I understood every syllable Amby was telling me, but I must say I was intrigued with the case. I wanted to bring honor back to the men who were on the scene that awful day. They needed to be cleared of the tragedy. And Phil Cardillo deserved his name cleared. The brass also said that he was in the wrong by entering that mosque in response to the ten-thirteen. And above all else, the man who shot and killed Phil Cardillo walked free. And that was my job, wasn't it? Bring murderers to justice? Amby was telling me to run the other way and that was the best advice I never took.

I was wound way too tight around everything that was going on—the search for Meyers, Daley's book, the
Blue Book
, and the possibility that I might catch the Cardillo case. When I headed to my apartment that night, Lynn had made a late dinner for us. I desperately needed the time away from everything, even if it was only for a couple of hours.

We talked about everything except the job. It was good to be a guy again. Alone in my apartment with a woman who I was fast falling in love with. After dinner we opened a bottle of wine and relaxed with a game of
chess. I couldn't help feeling elated. I knew deep inside, this was what I had been missing—down time—and I didn't want it to end. And then the phone rang.

Lyons sounded out of breath, “Randy, we got a call. He's heading out of the safe house in half an hour.”

With all that had transpired between me and Meyers, I was surprisingly calm. I moved to the closet where two of my guns were stored, strapped them on, and emptied a box of ammo into my field jacket. I turned to Lynn and quietly said, “I have to run out. I don't think I'll be long.”

Lynn had an innate ability to know when to ask questions and when not to ask. She simply nodded, thankfully showing no sign of disappointment. I turned and walked out the door, sure that I was going to return and sure that Lynn would be waiting upon my arrival.

Lyons was set up with Billy Butler on Pontiac Place, west of the set. A rough half-moon perimeter was established on both sides of Tinton Avenue. A line of four undercovers was staggered nearest the building running from the three o'clock to nine o'clock positions. Behind were four other UCs, split in twos on either side of the street at seven and five o'clock, and further back were three more UCs stationed at the six o'clock position. The other end of Tinton Avenue was set up in exactly the same formation. It was a tight formation, but still impossible for an untrained eye to ID the cops. They were saturated into the environment. Two blocks further east was the contingency of uniforms from the TPF (Tactical Patrol Force), stationed at the temporary headquarters. Two blocks south of Tinton Avenue was a reserve of ESU cops, replete with flak jackets and heavy artillery: machine guns, shotguns, and automatic handguns. In total, there had to be 100 cops and an additional 40 agents from the FBI. If the information on Meyers was right, he wouldn't make it off the street. If he put up a fight, he would die on Tinton Avenue. Either scenario worked for me.

Within minutes, Butler's radio received three quick pulses. One of the UCs with first eyes on Meyers was directed to key his radio three times if Meyers was heading north, twice if he was heading south. My guns were out and I was running toward the set. Before I reached the intersection at 152nd and Tinton, a barrage of shots cut through the air, first three quick pops, then unmistakable high velocity-fire from a machine gun. At least ten blasts were heard and then a succession of nonstop popping lasted for more than ten seconds. Butler and Lyons were right behind me. I heard
their radios come alive with transmissions.
We got him. He's down. Get a bus. Have TPF close off the perimeter. Have ESU respond to the set, need extractions in the apartment.

I neared the block, saw a group of DTs and agents converge in a semicircle about fifty feet from the building. Cordite hung low in the air, guns were holstered, and Big Bertha brought up the rear. A detachment of ESU cops charged into the building behind Plexiglas barricades. I passed cops who presumably knew me, though I could not take my eyes off the image that lay twisted and broken on the pavement. A dark liquid pool formed from underneath the man, slowly traversing through the cracked cement, dripping into a growing puddle of red in the street. I tilted my head at the man, needing closure, wanting a positive ID. I was just feet from him. I took a deep breath. It was him.

One of his eyes lazily hung open. The other was an explosion of bone and tissue. I whispered, “Did you know I was here, Meyers? Detective Jurgensen. I won, Twyman. You lost.”

I found a pay phone on Union Avenue. “It's me, Mom, your son. Everything is all right. We got him mom. We got him.”

As I walked back to my car, I felt an incredible sense of relief and accomplishment. Twyman Meyers was the leader of the BLA and a hatemonger. He'd been my objective for the better part of two years. I was as prepared to die as I was to live in my quest to bring him to justice. Catching him, as far as I was concerned, would be the end of the road for me. And now, on a tiny block in South Bronx, the book was closed on him and on my career.

I had seen it all on the job. I was transitioning into the movie business, having already consulted on some film and television projects. The cop's life was better when I was single. I knew I wanted Lynn to be the best part of the rest of my life. I could easily take early retirement, continue working in New York and Los Angeles as a consultant, and in four years, I'd collect my pension and benefits. As I walked those dark,
boogie-down
Bronx streets, I pulled off the armor that I had encased myself in, feeling lighter already. I was ready to round a corner in my life. I was ready to turn in my shield.

The next twenty-four hours would totally prove me wrong. I hadn't even begun yet.

I entered the apartment. Lynn was sound asleep on the couch. I wanted to wake her, deliver the life changing piece of news—I was retiring early—life was only going to get better for us. I'd been to a foreign war, been to battle in the streets of New York City, and now it was time to live, time to
have fun. That's when I noticed the piece of white paper tacked to the wall next to the phone.
Randy, meet Tom tomorrow at 9 a.m.

All of the air left my body. That little note spoke volumes, none of it good.

I tossed and turned most of the night.
Tom
was Lieutenant Thomas Fahey, who just happened to work in the Chief of D's office at One PP. Tom and I went back fifteen years to patrol at the 2-5 Precinct, came on together, rode for a while together. I made collars; Tom, also an excellent collar man, took the tests,
and passed them
. Lieutenant Tom would soon become Captain Tom, and through the years he'd work his way up the food chain to the incredible rank of Chief of Detectives Manhattan, one rank shy of Chief of Detectives, NYPD.

Tom knew I absolutely hated
the building.
I loathed the place—One PP—so in lieu of the fact that he called a meet there, something catastrophic had to be in the mail.

We had a prearranged tact plan. We'd rendezvous in the third-floor shitter, the only room I could stomach in the whole place.

The hostility toward the building went way beyond my aversion to the empty suits and the bureaucratic bean counters who worked there. One Police Plaza, in shape and form, was cold and ugly. It resembled—and still does—a large porous cube of brown sugar or a squared dollop of uncooked opium. Its crude blocky cement shape had been designed (ironically), in an architectural form known as Brutalism. There was, and is, nothing remarkable about the building other than its sheer unremarkability.

The old police headquarters at 240 Centre Street was the polar opposite, impressing both cop and prisoner with the majesty of the law. Just entering the building, you'd know,
men who care work here.
Visiting old police headquarters was akin to a religious sojourn to Vatican City.

But One PP was no Sistine Chapel. The mausoleum-like lobby of the new headquarters was large, boxy, cold, and as of yet, unfinished. Wires drooped from ugly fluorescent lights that were encased in cheap brown balusters haphazardly hung high from the ceilings. Thick colorful telephone lines snaked along the gray cement floors, disappearing into cavernous holes ripped into the pea green walls. In the center of the atrium was the command center, a circular pea green information-type booth, manned by three stone-faced uniformed cops. Walking through that corporate cube of opium heightened the anxiety I felt about Tom's news. After identifying myself, I was directed to a bay of gunmetal-gray elevators, where a cluster
of corporately dressed men and women soberly watched and collectively blinked, as the elevator light descended from floor to floor.

13th floor, blink-blink
12th floor, blink-blink
11th floor, blink-blink, yawn-yawn

The bathroom was much the same as the building itself, cement floors, pea green walls, and stalls. Tom hadn't arrived yet. I made sure to check each stall, guaranteeing us privacy. Lieutenant Tom walked in. Guy was all jaw. He was a powerfully built man of medium height, with about 100,000 watts of raw energy coursing through his veins per second. He was also the most optimistic man I ever met. In a hailstorm, Tom Fahey would call it partly sunny. He was a cop's cop, loved the men, the action, and the bravado that came with the job, and when tasked with an operation, he was a force of nature. From day one in the police academy, it was evident that Tom was lit differently from other recruits; a spirit of
can-do
emanated from the man. I respected and trusted Tom, and I was thrilled that he would be the first cop to learn of my retirement.

I smiled, extending my hand, “The shitter's clean.” I lifted up my shirt, “And so am I.”

He didn't find it funny. We
were
living through the Knapp commission (NYPD's corruption hearings), so why not add a little levity to the situation?
Hey, in twenty minutes, I'm a friggin civilian. I'm entitled to some humor, no?

He shook my hand with his normal kung-fu grip, and in his thick
boroughed
New York accent he asked, “I'm sure you've heard what's what, right?”

In hindsight I'm sure I knew why I was there, though I didn't want to face it, didn't want to think about what might be asked of me. I could already smell the Pacific waves and feel the western sun. “No, Tom, really haven't heard much of anything. Been working the BLA.”

I knew he saw right through the jerk-off-job I was trying desperately to sell him. Tom pointed with his thumb up to the ceiling, indicating the floors above us, the floors where the bosses freebooted whatever the fuck they wanted to. “The whisper, the rumor, is that you're catching the Phil Cardillo murder, though, it ain't a rumor no longer, Rand. You got the case.”

I was about to respond. He held out his hands in supplication, “Before
you say anything, hear me out.”

Again he jerked his thumb upward, “There's some new people in my office.” Tom worked for the Chief of Detectives' office. After Seedman's retirement, there had been mass exits from the bureau. Those positions had been refilled by street detectives, and more important, street bosses. According to Tom, they were all non-politicos. “You're gonna get support, trust me.”

I understood what he was saying and what the new administration's position on the case was. It was the Detective Bureau that was in charge of catching the shooter. They'd be the ones looking bad if Phil's murderer was never caught. These new bosses weren't about to take the hit for anyone else's ineptitude. I was their solution to embarrassment.

“How high does this request come from, Tom?”

“Twelfth floor. The tippy top, Rand.”

That told me the PC had to okay this move, and I knew what his dilemma was: the disgruntled cops. The word in the locker rooms was that a complete shutdown by patrol was imminent unless the job launched a proper investigation into the murder. Murphy couldn't allow this to happen. And so I was Murphy's solution, too.

“Why me, Tom? The building is top-heavy with adequate detectives.”

He grinned, moved to the window, watching the street life below. “You had a little sit-down at the Skyway Diner. Rumor has it you gave nothing up,” he turned to me, “That the truth?”

I tried to explain myself. Maybe he thought I was playing both sides. “I didn't know why he wanted to meet. That's why I hooked up with him. He's always been above board with me.”