Every available undercover detective and federal agent was set up. I knew if Meyers was there, it would be just a matter of time before audacity got the best of him, and he'd make a mistake. At least that's what I was hoping for.
There were teams of three working around the clock in the area of Tinton Avenue. None of the detectives and agents read prototypical cop. They were excellent UCs, all with a lot of time spent in overt surveillance, meaning they were adept at hiding in plain sight.
I was so anxious that if my tour started at 4:30 p.m., I would be in at 11:30 in the morning. It had been two years since I had this predator in my cuffs. Then he was freed to kill again and then he brought his filth upon my family.
I couldn't stay on or near the set. If Meyers saw me first, he'd follow me until he had opportunity and advantage; and he'd execute me. So I roamed the outside area of Tinton, giving myself a five-block buffer zone. That way I could get to the set if they needed an ID on Meyers before taking him down. But in my heart of hearts, I hoped to see him before anyone else.
I was into my fourth night near the set, as were a small division of DTs, special agents, and Tactical Patrol Force cops—used for riot control—in case of a nasty struggle. I was beginning to think Meyers had been tipped. It was dark, and I'd been near the set for close to thirteen hours. I decided to call it a day. I'd be back the next morning.
The phone was ringing as I opened my apartment door.
I was greeted by a friendly voice, “What's up, Kid?”
It was Ambrose. “What, you miss me already?”
He laughed sarcastically, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all miss our little ray of sunshine.”
“I bet you do. You need help with some ground balls?”
“Not on my worst day,” he laughed, but I knew he hadn't called to chat. He continued, “Listen, Kid, I just got a phone call from—and you're not going to believe this—Robert Daley.”
“Daley? What'd he want?”
“Well, he didn't want me. He wanted you.”
I laughed, still not grasping the importance of the call. “What'd he get off the wrong stop on the A train, got jumped on 125th?”
“No, he left me his home number, told me it was very important that you call him ASAP.”
“Amby, did he say what he needed?”
“Guy was short, sweet, and to the point, Randy.”
Amby rattled off the number. Before we hung up, he said, “Randy, listen, we need to talk.”
“So let's talk. What's up?”
He hesitated, “Been hearing lots of talk coming from downtown, mostly rumors, but anything from below the fifth should be considered, cause those suits don't know how to keep a fucking secret, secret.”
Below the fifth was code for police headquarters. I was intrigued. “What did you hear?”
“Sleepy's retiring.”
“And...”
“Rumor has it, you gonna get it. And before you take the case, you and I need to talk, in person.”
I fell into a chair. A wave of nausea came over me. I was rocked by a stabbing pain behind my eye. I moved my hand just above my ear, the point of impact from the brick. This always happened when I placed myself back in time to April 14.
“You all right, Kid?” He asked.
The thought of catching the biggest case of the NYPD, arguably, in the last century, where so much was at stake, sent a shiver down my back. “Yeah, Amby, just a little tired. I'm doing a ten-by, tomorrow. I'll stop by the house before I head up. We'll talk then.”
I didn't want to churn anymore rumors in the mill. We agreed to meet in the morning. I hung up, still clinging onto Daley's number. I wondered if he'd heard the same. I was catching this horror of a case. Curiosity got the best of me. I called him.
Daley picked up the phone on the first ring, like he'd been waiting for my call. “Bob Daley?” I asked.
“I know that voice; it's Randy Jurgensen,” he said, laughing cordially.
“So I got your message. What can I do for you, Bob?”
“Well honestly, Randy, there's much to talk about, but I'd prefer to do it in person.”
He didn't give me a chance to question him further, “How's tomorrow looking for you?”
Everyone was aware of Daley's angry separation from the job, his fervent attempt to disclose the truth behind Phil's murder. And after realizing all the dishonesty that was forced upon him, it took a lot of guts to drop his shield on the PC's desk. From where I stood, he was one of the good guys. “Okay, Bob. Best time for me is before eight in the morning.”
“Perfect, Randy. I'll come to you, where?”
“Let's meet at the Skyway Diner on eleventh, around 6:30. That good for you?”
I intentionally chose an early meeting time, wanting to see how urgent this was. His response kept me up most of the night. “Excellent, I'll be there 6:30, sharp.”
Robert Daley was sipping coffee as I entered the Skyway Diner. His head was buried in a mound of papers, and as I approached, I noticed an abundance of gray developing on his temples. He wasn't the young prodigy anymore, handpicked by Murphy himself to head up the DCPI.
He stood as I neared the table, inconspicuously in the back of the cop-heavy diner. I assumed he wanted to be as discreet as possible.
“Randy, you're looking good,” he said as he firmly shook my hand.
“You too, Bob. You too.”
We sat. He shuffled the handwritten pages into a worn brown leather satchel, the kind college professors carried. I could see why Murphy chose Daley for the center stage position of public information. He was a good-looking man who projected both intelligence and decisiveness; Daley was one of the very few intelligent appointees made by Murphy. “I haven't had one of these covert sit-downs since I found out there was $50,000 put on my head. I hope it hasn't been upped on me.”
He grinned at my attempt to get right to the point. “Well honestly, Randy, I personally think you're worth way more than fifty, but that's just me.”
He was good at what he did—extracting and disseminating information—and for good reason. He made you feel as though you were his equal, no higher on the pedestal of power and no lower. He made you feel like he was coming to you, whereas many deputy commissioners created a “great-and-powerful-Oz” vibe.
“So, Randy, I'm writing a book. It's called Target Blue, and I'd love to talk to you about it.” He must've recognized frustration develop behind my eyes. “Before you say no, let me at least give you my pitch.”
Daley was not that far removed from the job. He had to have known that Meyers showed his face at my mother's home. He had to have known that they were relocated out of state, and he'd have to have known that I was working the BLA again. “The book is a culmination of a year in the life of the NYPD, the Knapp corruption, the BLA, climaxing with the murder of Phil Cardillo. Randy, you are a big part of this department, especially this past year. The book won't be complete unless your insight is attached.”
“Who else knows about this book, Bob?”
“They know about it, Randy,” he grinned, “A press release was sent to the Deputy Commissioner of Public Information offices. I'm sure it was forwarded to the twelfth floor.”
The twelfth floor was the PC's office. I got a laugh out of that. “Bob, all due respect, and I do respect you for what you've been through and what you've done. But you have to understand; I'm still working the job. I do an all around telling secrets...”
He was quick, “Telling the truth.”
“Okay, telling the truth. I tell the truth and those guys in the puzzle palace won't fire me. You wanna know what they'd do? Strip me of my shield, put me back in the bag, and demote me to paper disposal at One PP. I haven't given this job fifteen years of my life to give anyone that type of advantage on me. There's just too much to lose, Bob.”
He sat back, a little deflated, though we both knew there was a long line of guys who would pay him for the opportunity to publicly vent. “I understand, Randy. But you have to know that this book and all it will assert has to be told.”
I believed it was going to be an accurate description of how the NYPD had been undermined and subsequently torn down under political pressure. And there was no one better to tell it than the man who was once the liaison between the police department, the mayor's office, the people of New York, and the rest of the world. It would certainly be an incendiary distraction, but despite that I felt gratitude. The bastards at One Police Plaza deserved to be exposed, and Robert Daley was just the man to do it.
I stood and shook his hand. I said, “You write that book, Bob. Tell it the way it really is, and don't hold a fucking thing back.”
He smiled and said, “You can count on it, Randy.”
I walked out of the diner convinced that Daley's book was going to do more good than bad. The rank and file needed someone to tell the truth about April 14. They needed validation for the anger and frustration they felt toward the job and the bosses. It was then that I finally understood why the bosses were so intent on creating the Blue Book Vito talked about; they needed to preempt Daley's book. It was going to be interesting to see which one came out first, the book of lies or the book of truths. But still, the focus wasn't anywhere near Phil Cardillo's killer.
Amby had two cups of black waiting when I arrived at the 2-8 squad. We walked and talked through Harlem.
“What'd Daley want?” He asked.
“Guy's writing a book. He wanted to interview me for it. You believe that?”
He tilted his big head toward me. “And you said?”
“C'mon, Amby, I was born in the day, but not yesterday.”
“Good, so that brick didn't totally turn your brain into Jell-O.”
“Nah, I got about five years till retirement; wanna make them good ones.”
“Well you got more than five if you want, you know.”
I knew Amby was getting at something. As usual, he got right to the point. “Your star is on the rise. Job ain't gonna forget what happened to your family. You know that, yes?” I nodded. “Did a little prying and you're about fourteen names from first grade.”
First grade was the pinnacle position to have as a New York City detective. Out of the 3,000 cops assigned to the detective bureau, 2,400 were third grade, the lowest position, 310 were mid-rank second grade detectives, and 290 were first grade, the highest position. First grade was what every street cop aspired to be, including Amby and me.
He had my attention. “Once you get grade, you can work the tit anywhere in the city, do what you want, run any operation you want. But you have to stay on the high road.”
“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.”
“You don't have to explain anything to me, Rand. Fact of the matter is,” he again jabbed his thumb upward, “they feel they can trust you. But that's half of it. You've worked in the sixth division most of your career. You know all the players up there, mopes and cops.” He stressed the word cops.
The rank-and-file cops wanted a pound of flesh from the commanders. They wanted to see the bosses hanged by their balls for the immeasurable betrayal. I understood what I was, the token Zone-sixer, one of their own, Harlem bred DT. Randy Jurgensen. He'd never turn on his own boys. See guys, the brass isn't killing the case.
The detectives needed me to save face. The PC needed me to appease the cops. The cops needed me to hammer the bosses. It was all about retribution, about fucking image. But nobody seemed to need me to catch a cop killer. Nobody needed Phil Cardillo cleared. Nobody but Phil's devastated wife, his three little kids, and me. That's what I needed. That and Lynn and the Pacific.
Still, the job was my life. The Pacific wasn't going anywhere. I shook Tom's hand and all I said was, “Okay.”
We turned for the door. He patted my back, “Tomorrow, report to the 2-5. A Lieutenant Muldoon from the borough will meet you and brief you, 9 a.m., Rand.”
In that ugly long hallway, he clapped my shoulder and said, “Go get'em, Rand.” He looked over his shoulder, then back to me. In a whisper he added, “And take no fuckin' prisoners.”
Just like that I was back on the job. All those daydreams of sandy beaches, brunches with movie stars, directors, and studio heads were all ebbing out to sea. The rush I heard was not a cresting pacific wave, but that of the A train whooshing into the 125th Street station, Harlem, the 2-8 Precinct, home.