On March 26, Melendez's corpse was ten days cold when Alig sent Riggs to Macy's to buy a new TV and a set of culinary knives. They got high before they entered the bathroom.
Alig began. He selected a serrated knife and pressed the blade to Melendez's thigh. As he began to saw through the leg, he felt faint and welcomed the opportunity to mentally detach, to go slightly unconscious. But it was no use trying to get numb. The task required his full strength and attention, as Melendez's body was in extreme rigor mortis. Alig felt like he was filing away at cold steel blocks. The acrid smell of flesh was unbearable. He sliced through the first limb until he heard a sickening noise that reminded him of the sound of a chicken wing snapping. He wanted to vomit. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Riggs cut through Melendez's other leg while Alig tugged and twisted until the same snapping sound was achieved. They placed the two legs in two layers of thick garbage bags, walked to the Hudson River at 42nd Street, and threw the bags into the water. Then they scored more heroin and stayed out all night.
The next day, Alig and Riggs stumbled back to the apartment to finish what they had started. They stuffed Melendez's torso into a trash bag and dumped the bag into the empty television box. Together, they wrapped several rolls of gray packing tape around the TV box and then pushed it into the elevator and out the lobby of Alig's apartment building. Once outside, they hailed a yellow taxi, and headed sixteen blocks due south toward Tunnel.
When the cab dropped them off, Alig must have had a shudder of a glimpse at how far he had fallen. He was a month shy of his thirtieth birthday. How many birthdays had he spent at Tunnel? It wasn't so long ago that he'd brought his mother here to celebrate with him. They had stepped out of the limo, bathed by the blinding flash of cameras. Clubgoers had lined up to pay their respects and strangers blew kisses on Alig's cheek, telling Elke she looked “fabulous.” Now Alig was just a junkie and a murderer, pushing a corpse in a box along the West Side Highway.
Alig and Riggs hoisted the heavy cardboard tomb up and over the railing, letting it drop into the Hudson River. It smacked hard against the water and was briefly swallowed up by the current. Alig panicked when the box rose to the surface as it floated downstream.
In the days and weeks that followed, Johnny Melendez, Angel's brother, would file a missing-person report with the police and put up flyers offering a $4,000 reward for any information that would help the Melendez family find Angel.
Alig's way of dealing with the murder was to joke about it: “I did it! I couldn't stand Angel anymore. He bored me, so I killed him!” He knew that no one really believed it.
It was time to get out of town. He put his belongings into storage and set out on a road trip to visit his mother in Indiana, and then on to Denver, Colorado, where he planned to quit drugs.
Gitsie had previously saved his life by giving him CPR after he passed out from a near-fatal heroin overdose at one of Gatien's hotel parties. Alig asked her to join him on his road trip to sobriety. They had five bags of heroin to share for the entire five-week trip. They went through it all in less than a week. When they got to South Bend, Alig was shaking and suffering through cold flashes, diarrhea, and vomiting. His muscles and bones ached. Elke tried to hug her son but he pulled away.
“Please, Mommy,” he begged. “Don't touch me. I hurt too bad.”
In June, Alig returned to New York—addicted to both heroin and methadone—and was taken in by a friend who was living at the Chelsea Hotel. A few months later he met the DEA agents when they knocked on his door. He trusted them enough to share his ordeal with them. He felt relieved to have finally confessed. That was all he had to say.
Germanowski still had one question.
“Mike, what'd you do with Angel's testicles?” he asked. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Alig said.
The coroner's report on Angel's torso noted a clean incision in the scrotum, with both testicles missing. The agents had heard rumors that Riggs and Alig were so high they may have ingested them.
“Mike, they were surgically removed,” Germanowski pressed. “It wasn't a thing where you were cutting the leg and the knife hit the scrotum and gouged it or ripped it or sliced it. This was a straight incision and both testicles were cut off. So where are they?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Alig said soberly.
Germanowski let it go. It was irrelevant. Maybe it was too dark even for Michael Alig to revisit.
Gagne, Germanowski, and Flaherty had three separate interviews with Alig about Melendez's murder. His recollections were lucid and unwavering. Germanowski recited the interviews in graphic detail in his DEA-6 reports.
Gagne tried to forget a lot of what he heard. Alig had been a talented young artist who had helped make Peter Gatien millions of dollars. As far as Gagne was concerned, Gatien was one more person in Alig's life who let him down by letting Alig fall apart, letting him drown in his own recklessness and addiction to the point where he became a murderer.
34 “THE ISRAELIS CAN WAIT”
IN THEIR THIRTY-MONTH investigation, Gagne and his partners secured guilty pleas and cooperation deals with some thirty defendants—drug dealers, bouncers, promoters, and directors—who played different roles in the drug-dealing hierarchy. They all agreed to become potential witnesses in the case against Gatien for a chance at leniency at their own sentencing hearings. Only three defendants pleaded not guilty: Peter Gatien, Steve Lewis, and a bouncer named Ray Montgomery, who was later acquitted.
The government amended its indictment against Gatien to include Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, or RICO, charges, alleging Gatien was the mastermind behind a well-organized and well-funded drug-dealing hierarchy, and that he rewarded top employees with invitations to his hotel parties—which he paid for with his corporate credit card.
Getting the DEA and the media to take a closer look at Ecstasy and the rising abuse of club drugs would come to define Gagne's hard work on the Gatien case. But his drive to bring Gatien to justice clouded his judgment in two ways that would deeply affect his career.
His first mistake was pushing aside the bigger picture: the Israeli suppliers. In debriefings with defendants, it was the same story again and again—Club Kids used to supply the drugs, but it was the Israelis now, they were bringing the pills from Holland by the tens of thousands.
Wiretap target John Charles Simonson described to the agents drug deals he took part in with nameless men: “I don't know where they're coming from, I don't know where they live, but they set up a deal, I walk outside my apartment at four a.m., and they're right there.”
Germanowski knew that was the sign of a pro: “I know where you are, and I know where you live, but you know nothing about me.”
Baby Joe Uzzardi said he heard talk about a major supplier known as Israeli Steve, Big Steve, or Fat Steve. It was obviously a reference to Tuito associate Steve Hager, who'd sold the LSD-laced Golds. But Hager might as well have been a ghost—Gagne and Germanowski had nothing on “Big Steve.”
Germanowski became increasingly interested in the Israeli supply network. “This is bigger than we know,” he would say. If it had been up to him, they would have chased the Israeli suppliers from the start, back when they had arrested Ghel and Michel and were just learning about the “brothers from the motherland.” But they didn't have the support to conduct a historical investigation on the clubs and open a new case against the mysterious Israeli suppliers. They had to pick one direction, and Gagne was focused on Gatien from the start. He knew that arresting an Israeli drug trafficker with an unpronounceable name might be a page-five blurb in the Post. But going after a multimillionaire club owner made front-page headlines and exposed the out-of-control drug use—especially Ecstasy use—in New York's nightclubs. Gagne wanted the club king.
“The Israelis can wait,” he would tell Germanowski. “I promise you, we'll come back for them.”
Gagne's second mistake was chasing down Robert De Niro.
> 35 “NOT VERY FUCKING FUNNY”
ALIG'S DECEMBER 1996 MURDER confession meant the loss of another important witness to severe credibility issues. But there was still an unexplored aspect of the Gatien case, a link the agents had yet to fully investigate: Mitch Kolpan.
Germanowski was at home with his wife and son when he got an angry phone call from his supervisor late one Sunday night in January 1997.
“Where the fuck are you?” Cardinali barked.
“I'm at home, Lou. You just called me here,” Germanowski said.
“Where's Gagne?”
“I don't know.”
“You two are together all the time. Where is he?”
“Lou, I'm telling you,” Germanowski said. “I don't know where Gags is.”
“Well, can you explain to me why I just got a call from the SAC, who got a call from the SAC in L.A., who got a call from Robert De Niro's attorney, who said Gagne's in L.A. waiting to interview Robert De Niro?”
Germanowski laughed. That was the craziest thing he'd heard his partner do in a long time, maybe crazier than the sleepover at Ghel's apartment.
“Not very fucking funny,” Cardinali said as slammed the phone down. The front office was all over Cardinali for not keeping his agent on a short leash.
Gagne had gotten a call earlier that week from the U.S. attorney's office. The prosecutors wanted him to go to Los Angeles to question De Niro about NYPD detective Mitch Kolpan. According to Steve Lewis's post-arrest statements, which were later suppressed, the retired cop was allegedly leaking information to Gatien about planned drug stings at the clubs. Kolpan was never charged with any wrongdoing, but the prosecutors wanted to know if De Niro had any information linking the cop to the club owner.
De Niro's connection to both men was thin. His 1993 directorial debut, A Bronx Tale, about a boy torn between his working-class heart-of-gold father (played by De Niro) and a murderous paternal mob boss (played by Chazz Palminteri), was based on a one-man play written by and starring Palminteri—who used to work for Gatien at the clubs before he became a movie star. Gatien executive-produced A Bronx Tale, and Mitch Kolpan had a small part as a detective. Kolpan went on to more bit roles in Casino and Money Train.
Gagne and Germanowski had already questioned Palminteri in New York. It was a bust. As far as both agents could recall, Palminteri put on an Oscar-worthy charm offensive: I don't remember. I'm so sorry to see Peter caught up in this. Drugs are a problem. You guys are doing a great job. Hey, you know—when you're going undercover, you're acting for real. I wouldn't mind calling on you guys sometime, you might have a legitimate shot at my business.
Still, the prosecutors hoped that De Niro might have information that would bolster the club owner/cop angle. Phone records indicated Kolpan had called Gatien's home 36 times and Limelight 290 times in the months leading up to and after the NYPD raid. Maybe De Niro could confirm a suspiciously close relationship between the cop and the club owner.
Gagne was game to go to L.A. to question the actor, but he had to pull together last-minute travel approvals to make the trip happen. In the interest of seizing the opportunity, steps were missed: the special agent in charge of New York didn't know about the trip, Cardinali had been out of the office and hadn't been in the loop, and Los Angeles DEA didn't get a courtesy call about Gagne's visit to their district.
Gagne rented a car when he got to Los Angeles and drove to Culver City, where De Niro was working on the set of Wag the Dog. De Niro's lawyer had already gotten a call from the federal prosecutors and had agreed to set up the meeting.
A friendly assistant led Gagne over to De Niro's trailer.
“He's very busy shooting. But he'd like to meet you and then reschedule to talk this evening,” she said.
De Niro came out of his trailer.
“Hello, how you doing?” The actor cordially shook Gagne's hand. He apologized for not being able to talk on the set. He invited Gagne to meet him at his house later. He was renting Paul Newman's place, by the way. Gagne felt like he was being schmoozed.
Their interview that night, just like Palminteri's testimony, went nowhere. De Niro said he couldn't remember anyone named Mitch Kolpan. He didn't know anything about any drug dealing in Gatien's clubs. He didn't know anything about crooked cops. He was sorry he couldn't be more helpful.
On his drive back to the airport, Gagne got in an accident when someone slammed into the rental car and totaled it. A fitting end. Gagne was tired and frustrated. He felt like the entire trip was a waste. He went home with nothing for his troubles, but the bosses at DEA would repay him for it a month later.
In February 1997, Gagne was in the field with Germanowski when his supervisor called.
“You're getting transferred to S-eleven,” Cardinali said.
That's a stupid joke, Gagne thought.
“You'll start Monday.”
Gagne felt his heart pounding. S-11 was support staff—intelligence work. A desk job. Intel agents didn't chase dealers or work undercover; they analyzed phone records and bank statements. Gagne was a meat eater, not a nine-to-five fact finder. He didn't understand what Cardinali was saying.
Cardinali tried to soften the news: the front office was shaking things up, creating a whole new intelligence unit, and Gagne was being pulled off group D-35 to be a part of this new unit. Cardinali didn't come out and say it then, but the truth was this was punishment for Gagne's trip to L.A. He had a reputation for testing the boundaries, and he had pushed them too far. The new assistant special agent in charge in New York got yelled at for the De Niro episode, and from then on he had it in for Bob Gagne.
Being sent to Intel, away from Germanowski and Flaherty, felt like a death to Gagne. The shame and confusion was crushing. He quietly hung up the phone.
“What? What did he say?” Germanowski asked.
“I'm going to S-eleven.”
His words hung heavy in the silence.
“Dagger to my heart,” was all Germanowski could say.
On Monday morning, Gagne packed up his desk and moved down to the fifth-floor Intel Unit. He would continue to work on the Gatien case; trial was a year away. But after that, he'd be stuck in the office doing support work while his family was three floors up, carrying on as usual. It was a dark time. Gagne had promised Germanowski they would come back for the Israeli traffickers. But nothing was certain now. He put the disappointment and anger out of his mind. Pushed it down. Forget about it.
36 “THE PARTY IS OVER”
MICHAEL ALIG SPENT Christmas Day 1996 at Rikers Island. He wore a gray jumpsuit, sweat socks, and plastic sandals for his mother's visit. Elke hugged him tight and kissed his hands.
By the spring of 1997, unbeknownst to the DEA agents, Alig was receiving jailhouse visits from Gatien's attorney Ben Brafman. Alig told his mother he was busting to tell her some exciting news but had been sworn to secrecy. By summer, Alig's exciting news had hit the papers: Brafman had received a signed affidavit from Alig in which the Club Kid recanted his statements against Gatien to the DEA. Gagne and Germanowski, Alig claimed, “attributed information to me that was simply not true. They would take part of what I said and add to it in order to make Peter appear to be personally involved in activities that I knew he had nothing to do with.”
Even worse, Alig claimed the agents had helped him to score drugs and let him snort heroin in the backseat of their official government vehicle. Both agents vehemently denied the accusations. Gagne had always wanted Alig sober. Not just for his own health—but because he'd be a better witness on the stand.
On October 1, 1997, Alig and Robert Riggs were transported to the New York State Supreme Court at 100 Centre Street to be sentenced for the first-degree manslaughter of Angel Melendez. They waited together in a holding pen outside the courtroom, catching up while Riggs smoked a cigarette. Alig hadn't seen Freeze in a while and noticed how common he looked without his makeup and bleached blond hair. A prisoner in a cell across the way recognized Alig and wanted to k
now if they were “those Club Kids—the ones I saw on TV who killed that guy.” Alig thought the inmate was cute, so when the guy pestered Riggs for a cigarette, Alig made him pull out his penis and jerk off for them first. A guard came to collect Riggs and Alig moments after the inmate finished. Riggs tossed the guy a cigarette as they were led to the courtroom.
Half a dozen of Alig's friends were sitting in the gallery, for moral support. But Alig wasn't worried. He felt assured, based on conversations with his lawyer, that his sentencing date would be held over, that he was going to get a slap on the wrist, and that this hearing was merely a formality.
The judge asked Riggs if he had anything to say. Riggs stood and read from an impassioned statement he had penciled on several sheets of yellow legal paper. Alig was dumbfounded.
“I endeavor to understand the aspects of myself that led me down such a gross and destructive path, but I have yet to come to any definite conclusions,” Riggs said. “What I am certain of is that all of us involved—myself, Michael Alig, Daniel Auster, and Angel Melendez—are victims of the same hideous evil, whose name is drugs.”
In the last year, it had come to light that there was a fourth person in Alig's apartment when Melendez was killed—Daniel Auster, the son of renowned novelist Paul Auster. Alig and Riggs had never mentioned Auster in their confessions, perhaps trying to protect him. Though cleared of any involvement in the murder, Auster would later plead guilty in 1998 (when he was twenty) to having stolen $3,000 from Melendez after he was killed.
Chemical Cowboys Page 16