One week later, I reported to the second floor of the 2-8 Detective Squad. Upon my, what I had hoped to be, low-key return, I noticed attitudes and demeanors had changed dramatically.
Upon entering the precinct muster room, I was taken aback by a large painted mural on a prominent wall. It read, “Remember Cardillo.” I knew before Haugh's abrupt departure, he had given the okay for this not-so-oblique memorial. It was painted the night of Phil's funeral. This wasn't just a commemorative painting, lamenting the life of a lost cop. This was a call against the injustices brought on every member of the NYPD by the leaders. No future precinct commander could come into the 2-8 and remove something so sacred to the men. It would lead to certain rebellion. Even after Haugh's departure, the mural remained untouched.
The transformation in the cops' behavior was astounding. The NYPD at the time was an explicitly para-militarized organization. A superior officer was greeted with a sharp salute. Yes, Sir and no, Sir were commonplace when speaking to a superior officer. Questions were answered truthfully, and commands were followed without hesitation. These protocols were inviolable and adhered to for a number of reasons—discipline, chain of command, and accountability. Of course, the men saw this as scalding hypocrisy since the kingpin bosses hadn't exhibited a single one of these on or since April 14. And so, patrol's subversive backlash began.
I entered the 2-8 just as the four-to-twelve tour was turned out, or sent on patrol, by the precinct's new commander, Inspector Hamilton Robinson. I'd met him a number of times and was impressed with his benign approach to work, and to command. The men, however, viewed his advent to the 2-8 as another slap in the face, and another cave-in to Farrakhan's demands—Robinson was black. And in spite of his previous accomplishments, good or fair, he was going to have to earn the respect of the 2-8 cops and prove he wasn't Murphy's lackey, period. What I witnessed that afternoon was residual blowback and a scary portent of times to come.
When they got up to leave, the men passed the desk where Robinson was standing, never looked him in the eye, and as opposed to snapping off a sharp salute, each unit individually raised his nightstick, tapped his shield, and said, “Remember Cardillo.”
Gone was the aura of respect and law and order. The men were beleaguered and angry, stuck in a perpetual state of bereavement. They were also noticeably top heavy with excess weaponry, none of which was authorized by the job. These veteran combatants were not taking any chances on the street.
Harlem cops were seasoned—quicker than other street cops—returning jobs and picking up new ones as they came in. They were well-versed in the fine art of finessing complainants into dropping nonsensical charges, which only pulled sectors off the streets, creating backlogs in the zone—well, not anymore. Farrakhan flexed his muscles, One PP (One Police Plaza) flexed theirs, and now patrol was going to flex its own. Every nonsense call would be answered, filled, and processed.
They wouldn't respond to any jobs unless backup was available. They wouldn't return a job until every last piece of paper was completed, no shortcuts. This had been put into play the evening of Phil's funeral by the collective delegates in Zone-6. It was the prequel to the promised slowdown. This was the warm-up act for a citywide shutdown, the showstopper.
Headquarters had already gotten wind of the slowdown and they feared the worst, more riots during the hot months in Harlem.
As I made my way to the Detective Squad, I was besieged by well-wishers, mostly the uniform cops of the 2-8. After the niceties, everyone drilled me with questions about the rooftop run-in I had had with Mitchelson. Rumors had gone wild, something like I'd be on trial soon for allegations of behavior unbecoming of an officer, disobeying a direct order, and even striking a superior officer. That's how it was. Cops from all over the city were communicating through the rumor mill, via the department mail. The interesting thing about the mail—post Cardillo—every envelope coming from Borough Manhattan North was stamped in bright red ink, “Remember Cardillo.” This simple message helped keep the wounds open and strengthen resolve for the slowdown. Much to the embarrassment of the borough commander, it went on for years.
A flurry of communiqués were sent out to all Manhattan North precincts, “Anyone caught defacing department mail is subject to immediate dismissal.” Upon receipt of this memo, much to the delight of the cops, stamped boldly in bright red ink, on the top right hand corner was “Remember Cardillo.”
My old desk was waiting for me in the 2-8 squad. First DT to greet me—Elwood Ambrose—my old homicide partner. Amby was a big man with as big a heart. Coming from proud, southern black roots, he commanded an enormous amount of respect, and not only from the cops who were lucky enough to partner with him. The street gave him the street juice he demanded. Amby was the type of detective who could work a stolen gem case in Manhattan's haughty silk-stocking district, and just as easily work a triple homicide in central Harlem. He was also a powerful player in the Detective Endowment Association—the detectives' union—so his finger was always pressed to the pulse of the 3,000 strong Detective Bureau. Amby liked people, enjoying all levels of conversation. He was a voracious reader, could complete The New York Times crossword in half an hour, and above all else, he was one tough detective. Goddamn, did I miss working with him.
As I approached my desk, Amby pulled out a white handkerchief and gallantly dusted off the city-green metal chair. In a poor attempt at cockney, he announced, “Your table and chair await you, Gov'na.”
I laughed and gave my old friend a big hug. “I like you better southern, Brother.”
I was quickly surrounded by the rest of the 2-8 detectives. After more hugs and a lot of back slapping, they dispersed back into their normal chaotic routine of typing, interviewing complainants, sifting through photos, making phone calls, and printing and questioning prisoners in the overflowing detention cell, or cage. It felt good to be home.
I hadn't spoken to Amby since the hospital. I wanted to get his take on the case. I poured a cup of black and eyed Amby. I then left the building and walked to the corner of 125th Street. This was our pre-arranged meeting place for the past ten years. Moments later, the big DT ambled out of the precinct; it always astounded me how agile a man he was. At six-four, two-forty he could dance around and in between a cluster of children playing near the precinct steps—once the safest piece of real estate in Harlem. He approached and said, “Walk-talk?”
We started walking and talking through the streets of Harlem. This had always been our time, picking away at each other, looking for answers, distant from prying ears. Amby and I were simpatico on a lot of things, and I knew that if anyone was privy to the investigation, he would be. “So wha'cha hearing, Amby?”
He hesitated ever so slightly, “Not much to say, Randy. We caught it and they took it.”
“Who took it?” I asked, hoping it went to Chief of D's office. By now, I assumed, a handpicked blue-ribbon team of Seedman's detectives were working the case.
“The borough took it, Randy.”
I stopped walking, confused. “The borough? Why in the hell would the borough conduct the homicide of an MOS (Member of the Service)? What cop is gonna talk to those idiots, anyway? Inspector Mitchelson's throne is in the fuckin' borough. After what happened on the roof, they'll never get anything out of the cops on the scene. Why in the world is it there?”
Amby slowed his walk, seemed to be calculating what his answer would be. He turned to me, “Keep it in the zone, I guess. But it doesn't matter, case was bounced back to the 2-8.”
Ambrose wasn't the type of man to venture a guess about anything, let alone the murder of one of his own; he knew more than he was letting on. “Bounced back to the 2-8?”
I was trying to keep calm. When a case is bounced back to a squad, it generally means that it's a hot potato, or its greater worth is outweighed by the trouble it's going to cause. This was the murder of a cop. “Who's got the case?” I asked.
Ambrose looked down, shook his head. Even he didn't believe what he was about to say. “Sleepy was up, so he caught it.”
Detective Basil Slepwitz had an array of nicknames—Schlepy, Slip-ups, Shitwitz—but the one that most fit DT. Slepwitz was Sleepy. Every precinct has a Sleepy. As a guy, he was well-liked—a loveable loser.
“Well, what's he doing, Amby?”
He motioned a shooter of liquor to his mouth and said, “Drinking a hell of a lot more than he did before.”
“Does he have a team, a partner?”
Amby started to walk again. He nodded and said, “He's got a partner.”
He looked back at me as I caught up to him, “One of the aided cases is working it with him.”
Aided was the term for an injured individual. As far as I knew, there were no other detectives requiring medical attention. “Who?” I asked.
“This young uniform, Navarra. He was—”
I held up my hand, stopping him. I began to feel physically sick. “Cardillo's partner,” I said.
Amby put his hand on my shoulder, “Borough had it, and then dumped it, because in all honesty, downtown doesn't really give a fuck who caught it. Not their priority, Randy.”
What could a uniform cop with no investigative experience do on this case? He himself was a victim. Didn't the brass realize that he wouldn't be viewed impartial to the investigation if it went to trial? They obviously didn't care. I couldn't look at Amby. No one wants to believe his wife is having a dirty affair. I was now given the plain facts: my wife—the job—was a two-dollar whore.
Unfortunately the day-to-day business at the murder factory didn't recede along with the morale in Zone-6. The BLA was still fueled by malevolence toward the establishment, and just as I was on their to-do list, they were on mine. It was back to work.
And so my days and nights were filled with intelligence gathering, and debriefing of arrestees and their arresting officers. The easy part was getting info out of the detainees; it was dealing with the cops and squad guys that was becoming a problem. When I got to any precinct, the first thing was, “When is the union gonna subpoena the bosses, Randy? We know you were there, Jurgensen. When are these motherfuckers gettin' hammered?”
Their hearts were in the right place, but their gun-sights were off target. Someone killed Phillip Cardillo, and it wasn't the superior officers. My feelings—at the time—catch the shooter first, then go after the job. I tried to explain that I was as far removed as the next guy. They wouldn't listen. They'd reply, “Well when you need us, we'll testify against those scumbags.”
It seemed that everyone I spoke to in those next few months was either inside the mosque or at the double doors and was commanded to look the other way by bosses right up the chain, to Lindsay himself. It seemed impossible—given the fact that I was there—all 500 cops I interviewed were so deeply embedded in the case. I knew where their anger came from. Hell, I felt some of the same, but I understood that this reasoning was serving no purpose, not until all perpetrators were brought to justice.
The fallout came quick and hard. After Haugh's curt resignation, Chief of Detectives Albert Seedman was next to abscond, and the fact that he did so while his boss, Murphy, was away in London, spoke volumes, not only to the councils of power, but also to the job as a whole. It was no secret that Seedman's disgust over Phil Cardillo's murder had driven him to the point of no return. Being unable to conduct a proper investigation had to feel like a slap in the face by men who could never imagine walking in his shoes. Haugh's angry exit was felt mainly by the cops of Zone-6, but Seedman's hit the entire detective bureau, the headquarters, and after the press releases, Lindsay himself.
Seedman made a parting statement to Robert Daley, “You've got to have some kind of love for these guys—the cops—you can't lead them unless you have that.”
Almost immediately after, Deputy Commissioner of Public Information Robert Daley phoned in his resignation. It was a Sunday.
The poisonous atmosphere was beginning to cloud the business at hand: catching and prosecuting criminals. The cops and detectives who felt the tumult, thought: The job's dead, let's lynch the fuckin' bosses. I did feel some of the same belligerence. But I wasn't ready to fold up the tents just yet. There were cop killers in the streets. The BLA was going to strike again. My target was not the white-sleeved, blue-coat, brass-buttoned crowd. My guy had real street value, was armed to the teeth, and had a gang of “freedom fighters” ready to die for him—he was Twyman Meyers—number one on the FBI's most wanted list and at the top of mine.