My meeting with Vito changed my mind about using cops from the 2-5. I called in two detectives from the Major Case Squad, Tommy Lyons and Billy Butler. These guys knew the terrain, the BLA. They were excellent street cops and even better interrogators.
The two players Tashana gave me had to be handled just right. My experience with the BLA gave me insight into their psyche. Planning bank robberies, successful jailbreaks, headline grabbing assassinations of cops and public figures, bombings of police stations, and the recruitment of young disillusioned black Americans—men and women—were all part of the BLA's grand scheme to split America in two, much the way the NYPD had been recently ripped apart.
The BLA was an adjunct killer faction of the Black Panthers. Where the Panthers tried to legitimize themselves with mainstream lectures, printed periodicals, and the realization of its own newspaper—The Black Panther—the BLA sought legitimacy through murder. Most members were young, under twenty-five, somewhat educated, though jobless, without possessions, with no known addresses, and with multiple street names and aliases. They were young formidable killers, and when caught, they were militant and tight-lipped during interrogations. Connecting the dots to other members, gleaning any credible information was nearly impossible. They knew the laws, and they knew their rights. They segregated themselves into cells or compartmentalized groups of five to seven soldiers. They were experts in hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, and demolition. Once cornered, without hesitation, they would take out as many people as possible before giving up.
Members of the BLA were emboldened behind worldwide connections. They could get false documents, money, planning, and refuge in Canada, Europe, and Africa. They used a foreign film, The Battle for Algiers, as an organizational and tactical blueprint. In the film, oppressed black Algerians toppled French sovereignty by waging war against the police. The collapse of the French law enforcement allowed for looting, riots, and chaos to ensue in the streets, further bolstering individual revolutionary cells, which eventually led to French abdication. It was scarily reminiscent of our experience at New York's Mosque Number 7. The BLA sought abdication from its own rulers, the United States government, which, according to them, had been their oppressors for the last 350 years.
The one hope I held onto was the fact that these two brothers were new to the game and hadn't yet been brainwashed by the glorified freedom-fighter rhetoric of the BLA.
It was the morning of the takedown. The street was lined on both sides with four-story, brownstone and limestone walk-up buildings. The roofs all connected, which would allow us to enter the building from a different address. The target was in the middle of 126th Street, tactically good for us because Harlem blocks were notoriously long. If it came down to a foot chase, we'd have more time to catch them before they hit one of the avenues.
That was the good news; the bad news read like a grocery list. The street was a monster drug location where both heroin and coke were sold twenty-four seven. That meant there was a continuous flow of buyers and dealers in and out of the buildings on the block, with lookouts posted all over.
The first plan of action was getting a car on the block, preferably in front of the building, then parking it undetected. Since all three of us were white and fairly recognizable, it would be impossible to do. I recruited a black 2-4 anticrime cop to park my personal car, which would blend into any ghetto environment.
I felt secure his cover would stay intact since he was so far from his area of deployment. The plan was for him to park close to the set—379 East 126th Street—lock the car, and walk off undetected. After that, he'd relay its location through the point-to-point radio back to me.
The second part of the operation was a little trickier, getting into the building without being seen. It'd be impossible to go through the front door, so we decided on the 127th Street entrance.
We were lucky because 127th Street was deserted other than the occasional skin-poppers nodding on the decaying stoops and in scorched abandoned cars. We climbed the rear fire escape, making our way to the roof. I stayed clear of the edge. If we were seen by anyone, the operation was a burn—end of takedown, end of Twyman Meyers.
We were on our haunches now, at both sides of the door. No sound from within the building.
We entered and waited on the stairs, ready to pounce, guns locked and loaded. When the brothers finally entered the building and I saw them walk to their apartment, my heart skipped. They were both carrying army-type duffle bags. I knew they were strapped with heavy artillery, and hopefully, a lot of heroin.
I felt Lyons directly behind me. We leapt off the stairs simultaneously, guns pointed in the direction of their heads. I screamed, “Police, don't fucking move!”
Surprise is a powerful tool. Both men dropped the duffle bags and raised their hands to their faces to block any bullets coming their way. “Don't shoot. Don't motherfucking shoot,” they screamed.
“On your knees. Keep your hands high above,” I screamed.
They complied. Butler screamed from above, “You got them?”
“Yeah, we're good, Billy.”
I moved to the two men, now kneeling on the ground, hands in the air. “Either one of you move, I'm gonna blow your fucking hearts out.”
I placed the barrel of my revolver just under one man's ear. Lyons did the same to the second man. We separated and cuffed both brothers. We laid them on their backs, quickly checking them for guns. Both were strapped with fully-loaded .45 caliber handguns, a great start.
The keys were still in the door. I pointed my gun at it. “Is there anyone in that apartment?”
The one closest to me calmly said, “You gots the gun; check your damn self.”
Not what I wanted to hear, but if there was someone waiting behind that door, I certainly wasn't going to take the first hit. I lifted my smart-ass prisoner to his feet. I'd been in these brownstones enough times to know their layout, two railroad apartments on each floor, kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom. It was a straight run, and my man was going in first.
I keyed open the door with the man in front of me, my gun stationary at the base of his head. The apartment was dark. I screamed, “Police, anyone here?”
Nothing. I whispered, “Where's the light switch, fuck-o?”
“On the wall to your left.”
He was extremely calm, which meant the apartment was clear. If he knew there was a shooter in the apartment, there was no way in hell he'd let me lead him in. I flipped on the hall light, empty.
We sat both men in the middle of the living room. They were young, maybe seventeen and eighteen. The older of the two was the one I led in with me. He looked up at me and for the briefest of moments, it looked like he recognized me. I was sure I'd never seen either of them before. He grinned and said, “Oh shit,” to his brother.
The younger one looked up at me and then quickly dropped his head. Of the two, he was the most frightened. He would be the easiest to turn.
I was curious. “You know me?” I asked.
Now he laughed, “Lots-a motherfuckers be knowin' you.”
His brother yelled, “Man, shut the fuck up.”
Butler and Lyons looked at me smiling; dissension among thieves always works for the good guys.
I pulled open the duffle bags, which contained two cut-down shotguns, two .9 mm automatic handguns, four extra clips, a police radio, rounds and rounds of ammunition, a scale, and two plastic baggies filled with white powder. I looked down at the men, “You guys are federally fucked.”
The younger brother asked, “Federally fucked?”
I lied, “New laws. Defaced guns along with narcotics are a federal offense.”
The older of the two sucked his teeth.
“Oh yeah, Hustler, you lookin' at twenty years behind this collar. You are federally fucked. You can believe that,” I laughed.
We exited the building, leading our two cuffed prisoners and all the evidence to the car we had planted. The shocked looks on the faces of the dealers said we had been completely undetected.
Once inside the 2-5 Precinct, we immediately separated both men. Butler and Lyons took the younger of the two. I took the older one into a clerical office, where I re-cuffed him to a chair. I was sure he knew who I was, and I had to be careful with my questioning. I had to make him offer me what it was he had, so first I had to lay out what he was facing.
I searched his pockets; a wallet held a valid New York State driver's license, and to my surprise, a work identification card from the New York Social Services Bureau. Both names on the documents matched, Benjamin Bunch. “What was it you used to do at social services?”
He was indignant, “What you mean used to do? Still gots my gig there.”
I shook my head slowly, “It's a state job. Felons can't hold state jobs.” This was going to be the first concession I'd offer him in return for information.
“Man, that's bullshit.”
“No it's not, Benjamin. But that's the least of your problems. We got you dead to rights. This is a slam dunk in court. You really are looking at twenty and up, and that's just for the gack and the guns.”
He sucked his teeth again, “What, you think you gots me on something else?”
“I know I do. What do you think? We just happened to be in the hallway when you walked in with the load you had on you? C'mon, Hustler,” This is where I'd partially tip my hand. “You were given to me.”
That really ticked him off. He sat up in his chair, “By who, Motherfucker, by who?”
I smiled and hesitated with the answer, “You know exactly who I am, yes? And you know who I'm looking for, so who in the fuck do you think gave you up?”
He leaned forward, eyes blazing with intensity. I could see him going through faces in his mind, deciding who it was who gave him up. I assumed he settled on someone because his shoulders relaxed. His face loosened up as he sat back in the chair smiling. “I know the motherfucker who gave my shit up. That's okay, motherfucker's days is numbered. Tell you what you need, DT. You need to check yo-self when you steppin' out, cause just likes you's be lookin' for a motherfucker, that motherfucker be lookin' for you, too.”
Now it was time to play him. “You know what else I got on you? The gun I pulled off of fuck-o Twyman last year was the same gun used in the cop killings uptown.” Lie.
He looked away, shaking his hands and head. “Nah, nah, nah, DT. You ain't puttin' that shit on me. I ain't had nothin' to do with that.”
“Do you really think I give a fuck if you were or weren't there? That gun did two cops, and those are your boys, and one of them is saying you were there, and he's coming to court to say you were. So the twenty years behind that bullshit we got you with is really the least of your problems. Killing a cop brings you the chair, Benjamin.”
“Man, fuck that shit. I ain't had nothin' to do with those killings. Them was the black soldiers, the same motherfucker who's been lookin' for you. Twyman motherfuckin' Meyers. And I wasn't motherfuckin' there.”
“Prove it.”
He was nervous; sweat was beading above his brow. He tried to play off the fear that was closing in on him. “Why I gots to prove it? Ask the motherfucker yo-self.”
Now I had him. “I would, if I knew where the motherfucker was.”
I sat back smiling. I saw the lights finally go on behind Benjamin's angry eyes. He relaxed and smiled. “Oh, this motherfucker get it. You want the soldier who lookin' for you.”
He realized he'd be given a pass. That is if he wasn't actually involved in the shootings, and the guns he was captured with weren't wanted in connection with any other shootings. “The guns upstairs, they gonna come back to anything stupid? Anything that's gonna piss me off?”
“Far as this nigga' know, those gats is clean.”
“I find out you playing me, you're gonna go for everything, comprende?”
“Yo, DT, I'm tellin' you, me and my brother knows these motherfuckers, but we ain't with them, you know what I'm sayin'?”
Benjamin Bunch turned out to be a wealth of information on all things pertaining to the BLA. Though he was quick to point out that he never met Meyers, according to Bunch, it was common knowledge in the street that Twyman Meyers was an assassin for the BLA and had targeted and murdered cops, not just in New York, but also all over the country. He described how Meyers was uniformly feared in the street, and was quickly becoming mythical in power. The urban legend that was starting to propagate around Meyers helped the BLA recruit legions of more-than-ready and willing, black soldiers.
Everything that Bunch had given me was street info, secondhand, which meant that he could not corroborate in court with damning firsthand knowledge of any of the murders. But Bunch knew the whereabouts of Meyers's support system, his safe house.
Meyers and his men had a slew of women who willingly offered food, shelter, and sex. These dens were usually far from Harlem, where the police and the FBI had stepped up dragnets and raids. Bunch gave a street, Tinton Avenue, the Bronx. He didn't have a specific house, but he knew the building was the second one off of Pontiac Place, on the left-hand side in the direction of 152nd Street. As recent as two days prior, Meyers was spotted there in the company of a pregnant woman.
We did our due diligence on the guns, running all the serial numbers. None came back stolen or wanted, though it would take at least a week to do a national check on them. We gave the Bunch brothers a deal, as long as the info was credible and Meyers was caught.
This was the closest anyone had gotten to the upper echelon of the BLA. Was the pendulum finally swinging back in our favor? I prayed to Saint Michael, the patron saint of police: Let the information be truthful, and let me be the first person to lay eyes, cuffs, or bullets on Meyers. I was so close, and getting closer.