For the first two weeks, my desk was surrounded by no fewer than three uniforms with questions and sometimes answers about the case—cops from all over the city. These guys were loud and angry. It didn't matter who was in earshot, perps, complainants, victims, or bosses from the bureau. I could see it was wearing thin with the DTs in the squad, especially Lieutenant Herman Kluge. He was the 2-8 whip, or detective commander. His job was tough enough, and a bunch of chief-less policemen disrupting the controlled chaos wasn't making things easier. I knew my days were numbered at my home.
I hit the ground running, trying to stay within my initial game plan. First order of business was the retrieval of key evidence: initial witness statements, all of the paper relating to the case, fives (detective follow-up reports), sixty-ones (complaint reports), and forty-nines (unusual reports). Also needed were the 911 tapes, and Phil's complete uniform.
I waited inside the precinct parking lot for Detective John Thomas. He was the alleged call-in for the initial thirteen at the mosque. I wanted to save both of us the embarrassment of asking him testy questions in front of the other detectives, or worse, uniforms.
He pulled into the lot. I said, “How you doing, John?”
He wanted this part of the investigation over as quickly as I did. “Very good, Randy. What do you need?”
This was hard to ask, but it had to be done. “Did you make that phone call?”
He was a seasoned detective, unemotional and direct. “No, as a matter of fact. I wasn't working that day.”
I knew this already, having checked the roll call of the day. “Were you ever inside the mosque prior to the thirteen?”
“Ever lock up any Muslim prior to the thirteen?”
“No, Randy.”
“No beefs off duty?”
“None.”
I nodded and shook his hand. “Thanks, John. Sorry about this.”
“So am I, Randy. So am I.”
This had to be particularly hard for Thomas. Whether he was involved or not didn't make a difference. Thomas's name was forever associated with one of the worst atrocities inflicted upon the cops of the NYPD. Next was Vito.
I sat Vito down. This interview was important in disproving premeditated intrusion into the mosque. He was sipping a cup of coffee with shaky hands. I knew where his anxiety was coming from, but it was time to get down to business. “Were you ever inside the mosque at 1-0-2 West 116th Street before April 14, 1972?”
“No, Randy, that was the first time.”
“Do you know if Phil had ever entered the building prior to that day?”
“We worked together for five years, and I'm positive he was never in that building in all that time.”
“How can you be sure he hadn't been there on a day you were sick or had a tour change?”
“On our way to the thirteen, he asked me how many floors were in the building. I told him I didn't know.”
“What about Negron and Padilla. You guys talk on that day, prior to the thirteen?”
“No, Randy. We didn't know those guys. I still don't know them.”
That was it. None of these cops knew one another. You can't plan an invasion without knowing one another. Clearly there was no premeditation by anyone in the police department.
The Manhattan property clerk's office was designed to store every piece of evidence in every criminal case originating in the borough of Manhattan. Drugs, weapons, money, clothing, anything designated as evidence in an ongoing case was stored in that building until adjudication. So needless to say, I found it incredibly odd that Vito couldn't retrieve Phil's uniform from the office of the property clerk. It was nowhere to be found. The place was turned upside down, still nothing. Finally after days and days of precinct ransacking, it was found, crumpled at the bottom of a locker in the 2-4 Precinct.
Vito was next to me when I removed it from the locker. At first sight of the discarded bloodstained clothing, I heard Vito catch his breath. My feelings ran from embarrassment to shame. A dead cop's uniform balled up and forgotten. How could anyone allow this to happen? I noticed two singed bullet holes, entrance and exit. I placed the wrinkled pants, shirt, and duty jacket on hangers, trying to restore some semblance of respect for Phil's uniform. We left the borough without signing out for the uniform, didn't think they'd miss it.
I tried to not let this deter us, but when Vito announced this piece of news to Gorman and the rest of the cops at the 2-8, we had to play show-and-tell with the whole precinct. Yes, it was a fuckup. Imagine going to court and telling them we lost the dead cop's uniform. It was yet another slap in the face of the cops who cared. But it was a manageable fuckup—no point in harping on it. I had to play den mother again, explaining to Vito that not everyone needed to know every aspect of the case, especially the bungles. It was only going to slow us down. It seemed to work, and by then, Vito was ready to help.
My next phone call was to the Manhattan DA's office. I needed to know who the catching assistant district attorney (ADA) was. I was pleased to learn it was John Van Lindt. He was the ADA everyone called The Bull. Van Lindt was a tenacious lawyer who could argue the greatest of defense attorneys under the table. Like a bull, when he had a task to do, he dropped his head and didn't look up until it was completed.
Van Lindt requested every piece of paper written on the case. I had Vito get copies of everything he could in the 2-5, and then I sent him to the Department of Buildings to get the floor plans of 1-0-2 West 116th Street. I was sure that would keep him busy and out of the field of vision of the ever present 2-8 uniforms. I went to the 2-4, the borough, to retrieve whatever paper they had.
I approached the clerical cop, my shield and ID card affixed properly to my jacket.
“How you doing? I'm Detective Jurgensen of the 2-8. I'm here to pick up all the unusuals, sixty-ones, and forwarded fives on the Cardillo case, from April 14, 72 to now.”
This was a routine request. I'd retrieved thousands of forty-nines, sixty-ones, and fives with no problem. I looked around the room, waiting for the uniform to pile the paper into a folder and I'd be on my way. I looked back. Other than his feet nervously shuffling under his desk, he hadn't moved. I asked again, “I'm here to pick up the paper on Cardillo. I need it for the ADA. Can I get it, please, so I can be on my way?”
He stammered, “The, um, the paper can't be, nothing can leave here unless it's okayed by an inspector.”
“I'm the investigating detective. It's my case. Go find me whatever files you have and I'll be on my way.”
I looked around the office. It was empty. I felt my throat starting to close. I'd had enough. It was ridiculous enough to have to deal with Lieutenant Muldoon, though I deferred to him because he had rank, but this uniform in front of me, he got in the middle of the wrong fight. I imagined he might have had something to do with the displacement of Phil's uniform, or maybe I just wanted to think that. In any case, he became the focal point of the last few days I'd spent in hell. He was now a blinking red target. I slammed my hand on his desk three times. He slid back quickly in his chair. “Hey!” I screamed. “Do you fucking know that I'm working the case of a murdered cop? What, do they neuter you guys before you get these cushy little gigs? I want the fucking paper, and I want it fucking now!”
The uniform held up his hands as if he were deflecting spitballs, his eyes blinking continuously. “Okay, okay, Guy. Just let me make one call. Then we'll get you on your way.”
I stepped away from his desk to catch my breath. I heard him whispering into the phone. I didn't know whom he called or what he said. That's when he called my name.
“Um, Detective Jurgensen, it's for you.”
“Hello, this is—”
Before I finished my sentence, I heard that annoying voice.
“Is that you?” He asked in a clipped tone.
“Lieutenant Muldoon?”
“What'd I tell you? I told you any request comes from this office. It seems like we take five steps forward and you run seven steps backward. How are we gonna make this right, Jurgensen? How?”
He didn't let me answer. I just bit the inside of my lip and took his tongue-lashing for what seemed like an hour. He was bent out of shape about being overridden as to where my desk was to be, and what time my tours would begin and end. So now he was posturing, reminding me he was still the boss. He finally finished and said, “Now put that cop back on the line.”
I handed the uniform the phone. He nervously took it from me, listening and nodding quickly at what I'm sure was more lambasting. After he hung up, he removed a thick manila folder from the file cabinet and handed it to me, nervously avoiding my eyes. I would've felt some compassion for the cop, but I was fresh out of kindness.
Back at the 2-8, I looked at the forty-nines. The one for the day of occurrence had been sent back three times to be edited. All three drafts had used the word riot to describe the scene. But the fourth draft, the one that finally got approved by the brass, didn't have the word anywhere in sight. Vito returned with the building schematics, and a folder as thick as the one I had from the borough. I had typed up the fives on Thomas' and Vito's statements. I'd acquired the ballistics reports, had the buildings floor plans, had Phil's uniform. Now I was ready to add the final touches to the first part of my investigation. I couldn't bring the witnesses to the mosque, so I had to bring the mosque to the witnesses.
Larry Marinelli was an old friend of mine, now a film editor in the movie business with many connections, specifically scene and set designers. I used the floor plans of the mosque to have one of these designers build a mockup of the building. Then, I could call in the police witnesses and, using the mockup, determine where they were during the shooting. Larry Marinelli was going to prove aces in the progress of my murder investigation. Again, my only hope was getting help outside the department.
The next piece of the case was proving that Phil didn't shoot himself, nor was shot by another cop. I was off to the office of Michael Baden, the New York Medical Examiner.
Michael Baden and I had history; unfortunately, none of it pleasant. If I had a meeting with Baden, it was over a dead body, and given the fact that I caught a lot of bodies every year, Baden and I were old chums. Baden's first case with the New York ME's office was another murdered cop, Patrolman John Verecha. I had witnessed the murder. It was the Albert Victory case. Baden proved to be an excellent and thorough witness in court. He became the sole medical examiner whenever a cop was murdered. Of course, there were plenty other cops murdered since Verecha, and on many of those cases, I was the one collecting the forensics from Mike.
Baden was a genius ME. He had a way of simplifying the most scientific anomalies so that John and Jane Doe jurors, and Joe Dolt cop witnesses, could make sense of the sometimes-complicated world of forensic science. He had a wickedly dry sense of humor, which was handy in his line of business, and he knew the exact moments to use his wit when jurors and witnesses were on death overload. He knew how to ease the pain of horrific death, knew how to bring shocked and appalled jurors out of the dark violent world of murder, back into his matter-of-fact world of science. I was two for two, got an excellent ADA assigned to the case, and a no-nonsense ME to explain the murder. Baden was waiting for me as I entered his office on the third floor of New York's famed Bellevue Hospital. He directed me to a metal slab where a white male cadaver, approximately Phil's height and weight, lay covered under a sheet. Baden carefully folded the sheet back below its waist, explaining that Phil's wounds were consistent with that of a .38 caliber handgun. He also said that he was bruised, and not just hospital bruising. He asked, “Was he beaten at the scene?”
“Yes, Mike, and it was bad, from what I gathered from the cops on the scene.”
“It was.”
He laid both his hands on the corpse's grayish cold skin, showing where the injuries were on Phil's corresponding body. “There was bruising on the inside of both his thighs, those markings are indicative of stomping. He also sustained defensive injuries to his hands, wrists, and forearms. There was substantial bruising to his head, neck, and shoulders. Was he dragged?”
“He was pulled down a flight of stairs.”
He pulled the cap off a felt pen and drew a diagram of both entrance and exit wounds on the body. The entrance wound, dime-sized, was slightly below his midsection, closer to his back, between the sixth and seventh ribs. He drew arrows indicating the bullet's trajectory, heading down from a ten o'clock position to the left side four o'clock position, which was the bullet's exit wound, the size of a nickel. He explained that flash and powder burns on Phil's jacket indicated that the gun was fired from a distance of between four and six inches.
I followed him to a freestanding rubber dummy. He laid it on the floor. From a table loaded with props he grabbed a replica, of a police service revolver. “Don't worry, Randy, I'm an excellent shot,” he deadpanned. The gun's barrel was painted red, so I knew it was without a firing pin. Baden drew a circle where the entrance wound would be. He then knelt to the dummy's right, placing the service revolver in its hand. Extending the dummy's arm, wrist, and hand in an array of angles, he demonstrated that for Phil to have himself at that short distance, four to six inches, his arm and wrist would had to have been broken. They were not.
I was elated. This completely disproved all assertions made by Farrakhan and the job. Phil was murdered and not by a cop. “You know, Mike, you're gonna be called to the stand again.”
He grinned, “I can't wait.”