by Robert Cea
Boom! He was able to get a shot off, I saw it just miss his lower torso; the discharge from the chamber turned a patch of skin on his stomach the color of burnt opium. Again he wailed. My nostrils flared at that familiar, acrid gunpowder smell, the smell I had also learned to love.
I began to slam the Monster’s hand into the four-foot cement ledge. He could not hold on to the revolver any longer. It slipped out of his hand, and down to the ground, way below. He quickly wrapped his arm around my neck and easily threw me to the tar. He straddled me, then wrapped his hands around my neck. I noticed his one hand; it was a bloody mess of flesh and bone, and with every scream he let out, the wound would pump faster. I was covered in his blood and mine. This is how it’s supposed to be.
He held me pinned with one hand and grabbed me at the shoulder with his other. I knew his next move was to throw me from the roof. He was so strong, this wouldn’t take much effort on his part. However, that wasn’t part of the plan. I started to dig in the small of my back. Where are they . . . There they are … Which hand is closer…Pumping wrist . . . CLICK-click-click. CLICK-click-click. We were now one, cuffed together, fused at the wrist. If I was going over, he was coming with me. I could see his confusion turn to realization, which turned to utter rage. He now screamed like a wolf caught in a bear trap. It rocked me to the core of my miserable dirty soul. I now had a sense of what fear this animal’s poor victims must’ve felt when they met him. He lifted his head up and slammed it into my left cheekbone. I actually felt my eye droop as my orbital was crushed. Nausea started to overtake me, the pain was that intense. I could barely speak. “G’head, you motherfucker, do what you want to do. Kill me, do it now.” Sensing defeat, he howled. He began to swing hard with his free hand into my head. I could not fight back, though the truth was, why fight back? I was spent physically and emotionally. The pain was unimportant; I was numb and already dead.
The Monster stood up in what would be his final display of absolute fury, and it was majestic. He slammed me across the tar roof, trying to work his way to the door. I kicked out with whatever strength I had left. He stumbled forward. I was starting to lose consciousness, though I wanted to see this to the end. He stood up again and stomped me in the ribs. It felt as though my lung had popped inside me and suddenly I could not breathe. I heard myself wheezing, and tasted bile and that distinctive copper taste that only occurs when you’ve swallowed too much of your own blood. As he tried to rip the cuff off my wrist, I heard my own bone start to crack. It was at this point that he paid deep attention to the work he was very good at—torture. He kneed me just below my rib cage, grabbed the back of my head, and pulled me up to him. Face-to-face, inches separating us. I can only hope that I showed scumbag that he did not command fear in all who encountered his wrath, I can only hope that I smiled as I said this: “Finish it, you fuckin’ coward!” I coughed out a sack of frothy blood into his face. He replied with insane anger, opening his mouth wide, revealing the large, cracked tobacco-stained teeth. He bit down hard. I roared in pain as I felt him moving through what was once my nose, then into the bone. He pulled away. His mouth was full of blood, my blood. He hit me again and again, anywhere he saw flesh, indiscriminant explosions of pain, and the light slowly faded. I remember the sensation of being in a pool, only I could not see anything. I was cold, very cold. And I heard two loud bangs that were echoed and from a distance, they sounded like they were shot from within a tank of water. That’s when I saw her, Mia. She was floating above me, years ago, innocent of all hurt and pain, beautiful, so alive. I saw the baby, my baby, the baby I never knew, though the one I was sure I murdered. I saw me, crisp blue uniform, shield glowing in the sunlight. I can only say that at that moment I finally felt the redemption and peace that I was seeking. Everything suddenly went billowy white and I was finally…free.
Through the blackness I heard an echoed siren somewhere overhead. It was the siren from the marked RMP that was transporting me to Kings County Hospital. I tried, but I could not open my eyes, I felt fluid in my mouth, then I felt a hand tilt my head and fluid drip down my neck and down my back. I gagged, then heard men talking. A woman’s voice was in and out; I assumed these were the doctors and nurses who were tirelessly trying to save the unrecognizable man on the hospital gurney, and then there was nothing but the stark cold reality of… nothing.
16
“Endgame, Baby, Endgame”
I felt pressure on my foot. My eyes fluttered open and eventually a room came into focus. Everything had a dull sheen to it, even . . . Mahoney? Yes, Mahoney was bent over, looking down at me. I realized I was in a bed; when I went to move, I felt the bandages on my arms and wrists and I felt a cloth around my head and neck. He was smiling and I think I smiled too, but I was too fucked up and medicated to know. I tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“You got him, Rob! Positive from the chick on Hamilton. He’s gone, baby, you did it. And here’s another one–narcotics collared some mope on a separate B felony. He started to drop bombs for the narcotics guys, gave up a shooter for a body. You know where?” He laughed and shook his head. “Red Hook, some roof in Red Hook, a German named Cho. He gave us the shooter, we got him and the gun. He was an outside hire by the Shah to clip him for the rollover, just like you said.”
A hand reached in to touch my shoulder. I felt a lump in my throat when I saw it was Billy. I started to cry, though it was silent. I felt the tears stinging the skin around my nose and lips. He dropped his head, as I am sure he felt the same emotion. He looked up at me with his eyes full. “They dropped the charges, Rob. The whole thing’s a fucking wash. Endgame, baby, endgame. You did it, buddy, you solved some bodies and you showed ’em, you showed them all.”
When I woke again, the room was empty. Doctors came in and out, probing me to see what was going to be fixed and what wasn’t. None of it mattered to me. The scars that the plastic surgeons might or might not be able to hide, the bones that were fractured and broken, all of it would remind me of who I was, what I had become, and what road I had lived on and almost died on. To get to where I was and to get through what I had survived had set the stage for me to become the person I wanted to be.
I knew that if I survived the Monster, everything in my life was going to change. Mia helped facilitate that. The job for me was finished, I knew I could never delude myself into thinking that I was still a good cop; I had seen and done too much to ever really cleanse myself of all the sins I’d committed and been privy to. My life as I once knew it was over; it was now up to me to make it better.
Maybe it’s better and maybe I’m a better person now. I don’t know.
I served for three more years, doing things the right way, living my life in such a way that I could look in the mirror again. Yes, the wounds healed, and most tell me I look like nothing ever happened. But I know it did—you better fucking believe it—and, yes, the scars run deep. But, you know what? Hope runs deeper.
Epilogue
Anthony “Shah King” Huggins was found innocent of the crime of the homicide of Theobaldi “Cholito” Rodriguez. Looking at a term of no less than twenty years had he gone to trial, he pleaded to a lesser charge of possession with intent to sell and was incarcerated for a term of three years. Upon his release, Huggins realized he’d lost the projects to upstarts half his age. He developed an irreversible heroin addiction and overdosed in 1995 on his own drug, called “3 and out.”
Demetrius “The Monster” Burroughs was positively identified by two of his victims through a photo array. He expired two weeks after his capture, of complications due to bullet wounds he’d sustained during his arrest.
John Conroy took three civil-service tests, passing all of them. After two years as a captain in a Manhattan north precinct, he was promoted to the rank of deputy inspector. He is currently working in a quiet detail in a quiet section of northeastern Queens.
Patty Pirelli made it to the rank of detective second grade out of the organized crime control bureau; he retired
in 2002 and is living in Miami Beach, Florida, where he operates and is partial owner of his family’s restaurant.
Billy Devlin is a captain working in a joint task force with an unidentifiable federal law-enforcement agency; he has no plans to retire.
Mia, from what I understand, had remarried. I know nothing of her current life—where she is, does she have children, has she found her inner peace? I hold nothing against her. She was right, as she usually was, about my having become a monster, among many things. I never got over the loss of our baby, the final bond between us. Throughout she was crying out for help and I wasn’t there to give it to her. I believe that if we hadn’t lost the baby Mia and I would have found a way to love each other again; but, in the end, things might have gotten worse. With this loss, we were now truly through.
As for me, I eventually left the job. I realized that life did not begin and end in an unmarked police car. Life for everyone was going to go on, whether I strapped a gun on or not. Everything wasn’t so damn immediate and I wasn’t going to die if I didn’t allow myself to. I began to write about my life experiences, successfully transitioning into television and movies. I learned to like myself again, but more important, I learned to trust and love again. I met and married a beautiful woman, Lisa, who I had two beautiful children with. I learned that the rush of chasing a murderer with a gun pales in comparison to the rush of watching my nineyear-old son hit a home run, or to the joy I get listening to my six-year-old daughter sing a pretty song in French. I truly believe that everything we go through in life, good and bad, makes us the person we are to become. The key is to learn from those experiences and use the incredible power of hindsight. If that is the case, then I thank God for every moment I spent in the Badlands. Because the love I see in my children’s eyes tells me just who I’ve become . . . simply, Dad.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Above all else I must acknowledge my wife, Lisa, and my children, Nicholas and Olivia. They’ve made life so worth living. I want to thank my book agent, Ian Kleinert of Literary Group International. He has believed in this project from the start and I’m grateful for his passion, innovative approach to business, and his mind-blowing work ethic. He’s become more than my agent, he’s become a fast friend and has navigated this unfamiliar terrain for me better than I could have ever imagined. Special thanks to my editor, Mauro DiPreta, for having absolute and complete faith in this book and more important, in me. He more than anyone else molded this into what I think is something special. He’s given me incredible confidence with thought-provoking insight, creative input, and a no-nonsense approach to his work. He inspired me daily as I worked damn hard to maintain his trust and valued leadership. Joelle Yudin, the associate editor of this book, has been an enormous help in alleviating and troubleshooting problems before they occurred. Big ups, Joelle, for staying on point with books and other research material I needed to stay focused while writing this book. My brother, Jeff, and sister, Dawn, have given unconditional support and love throughout some really dark moments in life. So many unbearable nights were made bearable because of the special bond we three share to this day. And Dad, thanks for being there during some of the roughest times. I love you. No written or spoken word can express the depth of my love and gratitude. I want to acknowledge Nana and Gramps for the love they gave so freely and for the love they continue to give. Mark Cianciotta was there for me on the darkest day, and I’ll never forget you for it. Danny Gray, my oldest and dearest friend, was one of the first to read the unedited manuscript, as his opinion mattered greatly, and I thank you for your patience and suggestions. Kevin Diehl also gave support and advice after reading an early first version and I thank you and miss you. Big ups to Pete Smith for showing me how it was all done way back in the day. Others who were steadfast and true throughout the years are Vincent and Michael Cea, Dana Dolce, John “Cumumba-Jumba” DeSilvia, Gill Holland, Jimmy Muir, Peter Orlowsky, Kenny Becht, Ricky Stewart, Pat Cuomo, Larry Dolce, Michael DeMartino, Chris Lavasseur, Don Oriolo, Jerry Schatzberg, Russ “Where’s-My-Thousand-Dollar” Lyster, Harold Ramis (for bringing me back twice), Janet Punzi, Luca Palanca, Peter Dobson, and Joseph Farkas. Thanks Lou DiGiaimo and his son Lou Jr., for keeping my story alive. I also want to acknowledge my hero in life, Randy Jurgensen, and his wife, Lynn, for their continued belief in my abilities as a writer, a man, and a friend. I want to thank my mom, Joyce, for instilling in me a thirst for life and the courage to never give up on hope. A day hasn’t passed where I haven’t thought of your warm embrace and your calm, encouraging soft voice. I love you and miss you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dates and certain locations have been changed. Street names and aliases remain the same. Let no cop ever be questioned or tried beyond my own admissions, and let no perp walk free behind any misinterpretation of his absolute guilt.
Praise for
ROBERT CEA’s
NO LIGHTS, NO SIRENS
“Rob Cea delivers NYPD black and blue. No Lights, No Sirens—no holds barred! A thrilling read.”
George Anastasia, author of The Last Gangster
“Rob Cea’s life story reads like a Greek tragedy. A scary and intense roller coaster ride through Brooklyn’s Badlands, as told by the undercover who lived it. I could not put this book down. It simply blew me away.”
Albert S. Ruddy, Academy Award-winning producer of The Godfather and Million Dollar Baby
“Reads like a fast-paced novel.”
Poughkeepsie Journal (NY)
“No Lights, No Sirens reads like modern-day noir. It’s fastpaced action, realistic characters and incredible dialogue take you on a surreal journey to hell and back. A fabulous and compelling read.”
David Fisher, bestselling author of Hard Evidence
“Cea’s story of his life as a cop feels frighteningly immediate, as if it traveled directly, uncensored, from his psyche onto the page. No Lights, No Sirens proves beyond doubt the adage that it’s not a question of how far out you go, or what you see out there, it’s what you bring back. Among other things, Robert Cea brought back this book, for which we should all be grateful.”
Robert Nathan, author of The White Tiger
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Copyright © 2005 by Robert Cea
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-058713-0
ISBN-10: 0-06-058713-X
Epub Edition © NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062271983
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* This was before all of the NYPD’s rank and file were issued the Glock 17, the mother of all small-arms firepower.
* Meaning he wouldn’t get out of the RMP unless directed to a job by central or a superior officer, and he only wanted to work the eight hours he was getting paid for. Straight eight was a company man’s logic.
* Flag Pole is the center point in the atrium of the Red Hook housing projects.
* Poplar Street in Brooklyn Heights is where internal affairs was located.
* NYPD ten card is an index card with pertinent contact information on every officer. All official equipment, including serial numbers, are listed on the ten card.