by James Duffy
The paper also ran three sidebars: a history of the animal rights movement, a status report on the current work being done in embryology and what can only be described as a history of the embryo. The last feature stretched back to quote Galen's second-century treatise The Formulation of the Fetus and reproduced a Leonardo da Vinci drawing of a fetus in utero along with a photograph showing a chicken's egg in the third day of gestation. All that was lacking was a pronouncement from the editorial board.
. . .
The Hoaglands, oblivious to The Times's new tack, were spending a quiet evening at Gracie watching Titanic on the VCR when Gullighy burst in, copies of the newspaper in hand.
"The fat lady has sung."
He handed over one to Eldon, one to Edna.
Eldon read the whole coverage without comment. Edna did, too, but remarked, "Well, Eldon, this is certainly educational. I know much more about embryos than when I started. And I'm a doctor."
"I don't know what we do," Eldon said, in a toneless voice. "We've got this, and from what you told me earlier, Jack, a piece in The Surveyor as well. I'm going back to Minnesota."
"It's gonna be tough, Eldon," Gullighy told him. "But keep cool. You're still the mayor of the greatest city in the world."
"Yes, tonight."
. . .
Scoop's story appeared on schedule on Thursday:
PARK AVENUE MYSTERY SOLVED:MAYOR'S MEN SHOT PIT BULL
—————
Kosovo Freedom Fighter Recognizes Assailants
—————
Mayor Ordered Cops to "Off" the Dog
By FREDERICK P. RICE
The brutal killing, reported here last week, of the Park AvenuePit Bull outside 818 Fifth Avenue on August 16th has been solved.The killers of the dog were two bodyguards of Mayor EldonHoagland, acting at his direction.
Last week The Surveyor reported the midnight murder of heiressSue Nation Brandberg's prize Staffordshire bull terrier, namedWambli, outside the exclusive Fifth Avenue apartment house. Thedog's walker at the time he was killed, who originally identifiedhimself to this reporter only as "G," has now come forward to accuseEugenio R. Fasco and Thomas N. Braddock, two members of themayor's security detail, of the killing.
Originally, "G" was unwilling to talk on the record but Tuesday,the day after attending the St. Francis Festival on the lawn of GracieMansion, he changed his mind. Here are the facts.
"G," identified only by his initial and his past as a soldier in theBalkans fighting for Kosovo's independence, has agreed to go onthe record: he is Genc Serreqi, a 26-year-old Albanian who worksfor Mrs. Brandberg.
Mr. Serreqi attended the mayor's festival for officials andfriends of the Coalition for Animal Welfare as a guest of his employer. Previously he had identified the dog's killers only as unknown "men in black suits" that he took to be gangsters. But at theGracie Mansion fete he recognized two of the "gangsters" as themayor's bodyguards—and the third as the mayor, Eldon Hoagland,himself.
It is believed that the mayor was visiting his former Princetonroommate Milford Swansea at the Fifth Avenue address the nightof the tragedy, although Swansea, when contacted by this reporter,refused to confirm or deny this.
When the mayor emerged unsteadily from the apartment building, he lost his balance and tripped over the hind leg of the dog, whowas pissing at the time. The animal reacted violently and bit themayor on his right calf.
At this point the two bodyguards opened fire, sending a hail ofbullets into the helpless dog's body, presumably killing it. Mr. Serreqi, fearful for his life, as was earlier reported, ran from the sceneinto the comparative safety of Central Park.
At the time of the fracas, Serreqi alleges, he heard the mayor tellhis men to "off " the dog, and their shots were in response to hiscommand.
Additional confirmation for this account comes from the testimony of Amber Sweetwater, 24, until this week a nonunion employee in the kitchen at the mansion.
Sweetwater told this reporter that on the night in question Officer Braddock came down to the kitchen, after he and his partnerhad brought the mayor home, in search of first aid supplies. Later,he and Sgt. Fasco had a long conversation over coffee in the mansion kitchen. Sweetwater, who slept in a small adjoining room,could hear their voices but not what they were saying, except for areference to "garbage bags"—possibly as a means of disposing of thedog's body.
Last Tuesday, Sweetwater was abruptly fired from her job in theGracie Mansion kitchen by Edna Hoagland, the mayor's wife, forunspecified reasons. It is not known whether her dismissal was related to knowledge she may have had of the dog's slaying.
Neither Mayor Hoagland nor his wife was available for commentconcerning Serreqi's grave allegation. However, John R. Gullighy,the mayor's press secretary and close political confidant, said thatthe allegations were "absolutely untrue" and "somebody's hallucination."
"I have no idea what happened to that dog, if anything," he toldThe Surveyor. "All I know is that Mayor Hoagland spent thatevening with an old friend and came home, as was customary, withhis bodyguards." He acknowledged that the two plainclothesmenwere Fasco and Braddock but said he had no way of knowingwhether they had been dressed in black.
"You better be careful with this one, young man," Gullighywarned this reporter. "I think you've got an unstable young fellowon your hands. You'd better be sure of your ground."The Public Affairs Bureau of the Police Department refused tolet the two suspected murderers talk to this reporter. Nor wouldthe bureau spokesman confirm or deny whether the police had anyrecord of the shooting, or if a Firearms Discharge Report hadbeen filed, as is required whenever a police officer's weapon isfired.
Asked if there had been a cover-up, Gullighy angrily dismissedthe idea."To have a cover-up, there has to be something to cover up.That was not the case here."
Ms. Brandberg, a former Native American beauty contest winner and widow of billionaire industrialist Harry Brandberg, saidthat she believed her employee, Serreqi, "completely." "I'm outraged. All I can say is, I hope the mayor and his goons will bebrought to justice."
Ainsley Potter, chairman of the Coalition for Animal Welfare,also expressed shock at the charge. "The mayor very hospitably entertained us last Monday and appeared to be a friend of animals.But if this charge is correct, it is reprehensible."
Will the mayor have to resign? this reporter asked. "If the allegation turns out to be true, I would certainly think so."
[The mayor's bad week: embroils himself in animal rights controversy. Story, page 3; editorial, page 6.]
Justin Boyd's editorial was hard-hitting:
LIFT YOUR PANTS LEG, MR. MAYOR
—————
Mayor Eldon Hoagland has a crisis on his hands. We aren't referring to his pusillanimous dispute with a bunch of animal rights crazies over the esoterics of embryological research, but the seriouscharge of dog murder leveled against him by a young Kosovo freedom fighter, Genc Serreqi.
As our front-page story today details, this brave young man, freshfrom bloodshed in the Balkans, was walking a young dog on FifthAvenue when it was cold-bloodedly shot by three men he has sinceidentified as Mayor Hoagland and his two bodyguards. The shooting took place, according to Serreqi, after the dog bit the mayor onhis right leg and the mayor ordered his men to shoot.
This is a serious charge, going to the question of the mayor'sjudgment and character. As one of his earliest and most enthusiastic supporters, we would be both shocked and saddened if Serreqi's tale were true.
The mayor's spokesman has emphatically denied the story,and further denied that there has been any attempt to cover up the incident.
Who should we believe? We need to know the truth. And thereseems to us a sure way to determine that truth: permit an independent physician to examine Eldon Hoagland's right leg for signs of adog bite. If the telltale evidence is there, we are owed an explanation. If it's not, we'll be the first to apologize to him.
Lift your pants leg, Mayor Hoagland, and let's see the truth!
. . .
"All right, Jack, what do we do about this?" Eldon demanded, drumming his fingers on the latest Surveyor.
"Keep your pants on. Literally and figuratively."
"Very funny."
"What's your choice? Deny, deny, deny. You're going to have to do it in person very soon, you know. You can't hide behind my skirts forever."
"Hmn."
"As for the take-off-your-pants thing, you can ignore that. It's a silly, undignified demand. Justin Boyd sensationalism."
"I don't understand Justin. He was my biggest supporter. Why would he turn on me like this?"
"He's a journalist."
. . .
After leaving his distraught employer, Jack Gullighy turned his attention to another idea. If this Albanian freedom fighter The Surveyor wrote about was an illegal, as everyone seemed to believe, why not get him deported? Pursuing the mayor would be a lot harder if the principal witness were back in the Balkans, he reasoned.
To that end he called an acquaintance in the Immigration and Naturalization Service information office. The latter had not seen The Surveyor story, so Gullighy filled him in.
"If he's a wetback, and we think he is, it doesn't look too good for you guys—an illegal alien getting these headlines," Gullighy explained and then, helpfully, supplied his contact with Sue Nation Brandberg's address.
A long shot, Gullighy realized, but with calamity just around the corner it was worth a try.
. . .
That morning, before The Surveyor story appeared, Sue Brandberg had called Brendon Proctor and asked him to come and see her. The lawyer, aware that he was in at least temporary disfavor with his client, said he would come by as soon as he could that afternoon. Her intention was to work out the details of her marital arrangements with Genc. Then, after she had read Scoop's article, she began to have second thoughts. The story of her dog's assassination was out; it seemed only a question of time before Eldon Hoagland would be brought to account. Was Genc necessary to the process? Perhaps he was. But what if he was not? Did she really care if he was deported?
After a few minutes' reflection, she decided that she did indeed want him around, with those cries of OOOH! SHPIRT! So when Proctor arrived, she told him that she was going to marry Genc Serreqi.
The wisps of hair on Proctor's bald head were sticking out, as usual; had they not been, her announcement would certainly have propelled them outward.
"Mrs. Brandberg, you are serious?"
"Absolutely. He's a charming young man. And I think I love him."
"I certainly hope you're going to have a prenuptial agreement."
"That's what I wanted to ask you about. Do I need one?"
"Need one! He's penniless, I'm sure, and you have millions. If you should die, he could get half your estate." He didn't add that given the discrepancy in the lovebirds' ages, it was probable that she would predecease Genc.
"What about children?" Proctor asked.
"Children? At my age?"
"You might adopt."
"Most unlikely."
"Well, you might want to cover that. I assume he's some sort of Muslim or Mohammadan or whatever. And I'm sure you'd want your children to be raised as Christians."
"Not necessarily. There are Native American religions, you know." She enjoyed making Proctor uncomfortable.
"Oh yes, I see."
"But I don't think I need to pay for a lawyer's time to draft clauses about our children's religion. The money, yes. I understand that part of it."
"I'll need a schedule of your assets. But I guess I can put that together for you."
"Fine. The sooner the better."
"He spells his name S-E-R-R-E-Q-I? No 'U' after the 'Q'?"
"That's right."
"Most odd. Are you absolutely sure, Mrs. Brandberg, that you want to go through with this?"
"Yes, Brendon. As certain as I am that I want you for my lawyer."
NINETEEN
The flow of e-mail to Eldon kept growing. And there was no middle ground in the messages received:
You halfwit! Go back out west, where the gun is king! We NewYorkers are more civilized, in case you hadn't noticed.
First your police kill my people, now they kill animals. Watch outwhen we turn our guns on you!
Only one message (secretly) pleased Eldon:
Good for you! If I had my way, I'd shoot every dog in New YorkCity. The crap on the streets, stupid owners who can't, or won't,control their little—and big—Fidos. I wish I could say you'veshown us the way, but the bleeding hearts would never let us getaway with it.
The Surveyor may have downplayed The Post-News's coverage of the embryology controversy, but the daily gleefully picked up on the Wambli scandal the morning after Scoop's second story appeared. Giving its weekly rival a boost was of minor significance when there was such a delicious opportunity to attack the mayor. THUGS KILL PUPPY AS MAYOR STANDS BY, the front page screamed, beside a stock photo of a Staffordshire bull terrier (not Wambli). Except for changing the Park Avenue pit bull into a lovable puppy, the story was basically a rewrite of Scoop's.
The editorial in the same edition was something else again:
THE BLOOD ON ELDONHOAGLAND'S HANDS
—————
New Yorkers are used to shocks and scandals, but seldom has thecity been shaken as profoundly as by the revelation that two armedthugs in the employ of Mayor Eldon Hoagland brutally shot a helpless puppy in the supposedly safe precincts of upper Fifth Avenue.And shot the defenseless animal at the direction of the mayor himself.
The shooting, described in our story beginning on page 1, terrorized the young Albanian freedom fighter who was walking the dog,Wambli, when the ferocious assassination occurred. It ought to terrorize the rest of us, too: employees of our city wantonly slaughtering a tiny animal at the behest of the mayor. Granted Wambli wasnot pumped full of 41 bullets as in the infamous police-shootingcase our readers will remember, but the fusillade was nonethelessgruesome enough.
The mayor continues to deny any involvement. We frankly don'tbelieve him. But if he is innocent, there is an easy way to prove it.As another publication opined yesterday, all he has to do is let hisleg be examined for evidence of the bite that supposedly led to thekilling.
If, as we believe, the mayor is lying, we are of the opinion that hehas little choice but to resign. We cannot tolerate a first magistratewho does not tell the truth, or who condones the outright killing ofa pet beloved by one of our city's most socially conscious citizens,Sue Nation Brandberg.
Mayor Hoagland, do not cover up any further. Uncover, and letus have the true facts. We await your decision.
. . .
"It's certainly nice to be trusted by one of the two biggest newspapers in your city," Eldon told Edna at breakfast.
"Postnewspaper, dear."
"Now I know how Bill Clinton must have felt when that Jones woman's lawyers wanted to examine his prick. 'Distinctive characteristics,' I believe they were looking for."
"Well, you've certainly got them. That bite is still ugly."
"And nobody's going to see it."
. . .
"You've got to have a press conference," Gullighy told his boss later that morning at City Hall.
"Let's wait another day, or better, over the weekend. Or still better yet, next Wednesday, after the Columbus Day holiday. Let things settle down."
"All right, but I'm afraid it's not going to get any better."
"You're not thinking I should do what the Post-News says, are you?"
"Hell, no. You've got some dignity left to protect."
"Thanks," Eldon said, not much liking his aide's emphasis on "some."
"By the way, the wound's not fully healed, I take it?"
"No, dammit. And it itches."
. . .
It was a rare occurrence, but leaving City Hall that afternoon the mayor and his entourage ran smack into Randilynn Foote and hers as they came down the stairs from the Governo
r's Rooms. Surface politeness prevailed, but the surface was very thin.
"Hello, Governor."
"Greetings, Mr. Mayor. Nice suit you got on there. I especially like the pants. Mind if I feel them?"
Eldon backed away, defensive and horrified.
"Just kidding, Mayor. Just kidding."
. . .
The mayor was on his way to a ribbon cutting at a garment factory in the Bronx. The new enterprise was exactly the sort of project he had tried to encourage: a new business creating jobs in an economically deprived area, unionized, free of mob influence and not a sweatshop. As an added dividend the owner was a dynamic—and attractive—Hispanic, Laura Cata, who had been an ardent supporter in his election campaign, not least because of his commitment to helping start-up businesses.
After the bruising he had taken for days, he was gratified at his reception: a sensuous buss from Ms. Cata (no air-kissing here) and rousing cheers and applause from the rainbow crowd of workers—mostly women—Asian, Hispanic and black. They were all wearing bright yellow T-shirts inscribed cata, inc.; he was presented with one and, when he handed it off to Gene Fasco, the onlookers protested. So he took off his jacket and put it on over his shirt, to even more shouts of approval.
He hoped that the pool photographer accompanying him would get the right picture—the smiles of the owner and the local Bronx politicians in attendance, the enthusiastic crowd. Send that to The Post-News!
Ms. Cata's introduction was fulsome. Eldon rose to the occasion with some short, graceful remarks—even working in a reference to ciudad grande. Then, after a glass of the sparkling wine being passed and shaking hands all around, he headed back toward his car with his hostess, pleased and exhilarated. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large golden retriever ran out and nuzzled Ms. Cata, its owner. She was as affectionate as she would have been with a small baby and introduced the creature, Miguel, to the mayor.