I’d have to win Lucy over and I’d enjoy doing it; she was pleasant to be around. After a few dates it was a nice surprise to hear her say, “Why don’t you come up to my place Friday after work? I can cook us dinner.” My deductive reasoning and her sly smile told me that dinner wouldn’t be the main course. She didn’t have to ask me twice.
It was Tuesday and I began counting the days until Friday.
Over the next few days a cascade of robberies, burglaries, a carjacking, and assorted assaults and other turmoil kept me busy, but Lucy was always on my mind. When Friday finally rolled around, it didn’t arrive too soon.
I was working from 4 PM to midnight that day and planned on taking some compensatory lost time toward the end of the tour to get to Lucy’s place as early as I could. As chance (the bad variety) would have it, I got stuck with a late arrest, one that would keep me tied up for many hours. I was pissed, but there was nothing I could do about it.
I thought I was disappointed, but that was nothing compared to the way Lucy handled the news.
“You can’t come over after you’re done?” she asked, the frustration evident in her voice. I fantasized about what I was going to be missing.
I explained how things worked. “I could be here until three, four in the morning, maybe later.” It was only 9 PM now. “I don’t want to hang you up. How about next Wednesday? I’ll take the day off.”
She perked up. “You can do that?”
“Yes, no problem, I’ll be there.” We settled on eight o’clock.
So the clock began ticking again. I convinced myself that good things come to those who wait.
Three days later, I was on the street keeping the neighborhood safe with Timmy when our unit got a “forthwith” to the station house over the radio.
I looked at my partner. “You’re not getting locked up are you?” I said, memories of Gus Paulson flooding back to me.
Timmy looked at me like I had two heads. “Huh?”
“Never mind. Let’s just go in and see what we did wrong.”
There were two unsmiling guys in suits waiting for us in Sergeant Harris’s office. The sergeant was nowhere to be seen.
Timmy and I stood there looking like deer in the headlights.
“Which one of you is Friedman?” one of them asked.
Oh, shit.
I raised a finger. They both produced lieutenant’s shields. The gabby one said to Timmy, “You can go.” Both of them looked like poster boys for the Internal Affairs Division, affectionately known to street cops as the Rat Squad.
Timmy gave me a wane smile and left. The boss doing all the talking told me to sit down. I assumed I was going to be read my rights. Thoughts were racing through my mind, trying to figure out what I could’ve done wrong to warrant a visit from two bosses. Internal Affairs investigates allegations of serious crimes committed by members of the department. I delved into the recesses of my brain trying to come up with something I could’ve done that was bad enough to call these guys in. I was coming up blank.
“I’m Lieutenant DiLeo,” the same one said, “this is Lieutenant Hummel. We’re from the Intelligence Division.”
The fear and apprehension that seized me as soon as I entered the room left me in a rush, like a balloon deflating, my trepidation turning to curiosity. I figured they needed information on a case I’d handled.
“What can I help you guys with?” I asked, relief undoubtedly evident in my voice.
Lieutenant Hummel shook his head. “No, it’s what can we help you with, Detective.”
The other one, DiLeo, said, “You know a Lucy Santiago?”
I sat up straighter in my chair. In a short period of time, my emotions ran the gamut from fear to curiosity and now to confusion. Why did two bosses from Intelligence want to talk to me about Lucy? “Yeah,” I said, hesitantly, “I know her.”
“You had a date with her this last Friday you didn’t keep?” DiLeo said.
“That’s right. I had a collar, had to cancel. What’s this all about?”
“That collar saved your life,” Hummel said.
How was I supposed to respond to that? “Huh?”
DiLeo pulled up a chair and slid it close to me. “Lucy Santiago is Manny Rivas’s sister.”
He stopped talking and allowed that to sink in.
It’s not often I’m speechless, but I was now. Rivas, whom I’d shot and killed on a rooftop six months ago, was Lucy’s brother? My head was swimming with images of Rivas holding a knife less than two feet from me and then switched to Lucy and her sexy, captivating smile.
Hummel was talking again and woke me from my reverie.
“… a plot to kill you.”
“What? Kill me?”
Hummel said. “A snitch we were using heard about it and called us. Santiago’s invite to her place was for the purpose of killing you … avenging her brother. She had two of Manny’s friends in a closet, and when you were most vulnerable they were going to pounce and torture you to death.”
“Your body would never be found,” DiLeo added. He snapped his fingers. “Chopped up and dumped. Bye-bye, Ralph.”
Jesus! It was Lucy’s plan all along to murder me? I’d been played, and I didn’t have the slightest clue what was going on. Like a lamb being led to slaughter. While I was appalled at the sheer viciousness of the plot—Lucy was the last person I’d ever have suspected of something like this—the fact that I’d been completely fooled was the most disturbing aspect of it all. I’d survived for years on the job because I had more street smarts than those who wanted to do me harm. All the years honing my tactical and investigative skills weren’t enough to keep me from walking into a trap. Had I begun to lose my edge? While I wasn’t old, to survive the perils of the demanding streets of the Bronx, one needs the freshness and speed of youth. As I’d seen in countless B-movie Westerns, there’s always someone around who’s faster. And I would’ve been murdered in the most brutal way if it weren’t for a nameless informant. Obviously, I never showed up for my date with death, and I never heard from Lucy again. She must’ve figured I’d sensed an ambush. Lucy couldn’t be prosecuted for the plot to murder me. There was no real evidence of the crime, other than the word of an informant, and the only way to get her locked up would be to send me into harm’s way and arrest the plotters when they made their move on me. The NYPD wasn’t about to set me up as bait in an apartment with no backup right there with me.
Conditional cynicism is endemic for most street cops; we trust very few people we encounter on a daily basis. This distrust of people in general also encompasses cops’ personal lives, but we learn to trust the individuals in our inner circle. After the Lucy Santiago incident I took that mistrust one step further: now I couldn’t trust anyone. My very existence would depend on my suspecting anyone and everyone. I knew this attitude was unhealthy but couldn’t help myself. As long as I was on the job, I’d have to be even more situationally aware than I had been.
I’d gotten a pass from the patron saint of street cops, or maybe my survival had been just a matter of luck. Whatever had accounted for my good fortune, however, I was looking out for myself, and there was much more coming my way.
* * *
Nothing angers me more than crimes against children, the elderly, and women. Most cops feel the same way. While crime in general offends our sense of order, these crimes really set us off.
Soon after the Lucy Santiago incident, a rapist began a series of attacks and robberies within the confines of the Five-Two. Dubbed the Williamsbridge Rapist by the media, the attacker committed nine reported rapes and robberies in a five-block area over a two-and-a-half-week period in February 1982. We assumed the number of victims to be even greater because many sexual crimes go unreported for reasons ranging from the victims’ humiliation to their disillusionment with the criminal justice system to help in any way. For others, it’s the possibility of having to testify at their attackers’ trials.
Whenever crimes of this magnitude are com
mitted, and particularly when the press makes a point of keeping the story above the fold, the NYPD forms a task force whose sole job it is to capture the assailant. In this case I was part of the task force. Task force detectives put their pending cases on hold or the cases get reassigned to other detectives.
I’d been searching for the rapist for several days to no avail, as had the other task force detectives. A meeting was held at borough headquarters to discuss strategy. Attending the meeting were the detectives who were doing the footwork, the Bronx chief of detectives, and a handful of high-ranking bosses who would supervise and conduct interviews with the media.
The meeting dragged on and I was getting antsy. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. Being idle while a pervert was on the loose brutalizing women was nonproductive. A simple “Go out and get this asshole” would’ve been enough to focus the best detectives in the Bronx on their task, but instead we were forced to listen to endless theories and plans of attack.
“Excuse me,” I said to the boss addressing the troops, “shouldn’t we be out looking for this guy instead of talking about it?”
The reaction I got from the bosses was enough to make you think I was the criminal. An inspector threatened to cite me for insubordination, while others above the rank of captain joined in with calls for my head. The detectives, however, had nodded in approval at my comment, as did the two sergeants present.
I didn’t regret saying what I had said. Speaking your mind in any bureaucracy is ill-advised, but I was never concerned with ass kissing.
The meeting was soon adjourned, and we hit the street. As we exited the headquarters building, I heard Sergeant Harris mumble to another boss, “Fucking Friedman,” but there was admiration in his tone. Still, I wasn’t off the hook; a lowly detective doesn’t address a high-ranking boss in the manner I had. Unbeknownst to me, plans were forming to seriously stick it to me.
Saturating the target area had proved fruitless. We had spotted a few individuals who fit the general description of the perp—light-skinned African American, tall, thin, around twenty years old, but none was the correct person.
Then, on the same day as the borough task force meeting, the rapist struck again in an apartment building courtyard on DeKalb Avenue.
We were working with one of his victims, a young woman who had been riding with us and was adamant about helping us catch her attacker. She was smart, motivated, and best of all angry. We would channel that anger into our search for this brutal criminal.
She rode in an unmarked car with Sergeant Harris during the day and with me at night, putting in many hours of focused patrol time with negative results. Criminals usually operate in areas with which they are familiar, generally living among their victims. We figured patrolling the Williamsbridge neighborhood would eventually lead us to the rapist, but I was concerned that our helpful victim would grow weary of the hunt before then. I was mistaken. This was one gutsy, driven woman. She was in it for the long haul, no matter the time involved.
Police Officer Melvin Dodds was riding with me because Timmy was off. I was driving, Mel was up front, and the complainant was in the backseat.
At 7:10 PM we were turning onto Gunhill Road when the complainant grabbed my shoulder. “There he is!”
She was pointing to a tall, light-skinned black man walking down the street toward Rochambeau Avenue. He fit the description of the attacker perfectly.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“One hundred percent,” she said. “That’s the guy.”
“Okay,” Mel said to her, “stay in the car.”
I pulled the car to the curb ahead of the suspect, and Mel and I got out and approached him cautiously. We were a few feet in front of him when we identified ourselves. He turned and took off like a greyhound, with us in pursuit.
The good news was that we were sure we had our rapist in our sights. The bad news was he was young and ran like his ass was on fire. I was on the opposite side of the street, keeping him in view should he decide to cross, while Mel was behind him.
After three blocks of a full-wind sprint, the guy was still way ahead of us and widening the gap. I thought, “fuck this” and ran into the street and stepped in front of an oncoming car, waving my shield like a winning lottery ticket. The driver screeched to a halt.
A choice had to be made. I could either drag the driver out of his own car and commandeer it to continue the pursuit (think Gene Hackman in The French Connection chase scene) or let the driver do the driving while I directed the chase. I chose the latter because the driver was a young man and cooperative (“What do you want me to do, Officer?”). We took off down the street, picking up Mel along the way.
As we pulled up alongside the suspect, he spotted us and made an abrupt turn to enter the apartment building at 3591 Bainbridge Avenue. We were just steps behind him.
The front door to the building was locked. Gotchya, motherfucker!
The perp, later identified as David Patterson, nineteen, abandoning his attempt to get through the front door, rounded the building and tried to hide in the courtyard, but we were right on him. He put up one hell of a fight, which was expected because, if arrested, he wouldn’t breathe free air again until he was eligible for Social Security.
In his possession was an ID card belonging to our helpful victim. He confessed to assaulting her and robbing her at knifepoint. He also had a woman’s watch in his possession. When we got him back to the squad room, he confessed to three other rape/robberies and was picked out of a lineup by additional victims. Other lineups would be held at a later date and he’d be positively identified as the attacker by more victims, who were now coming forward.
The press was all over the story, and Mel and I were at its epicenter. The victim who’d accompanied us wasn’t named because sex-crime victims are not identified to the media. The borough bosses who had been devising ways to skin me alive for being a wise ass had to back off given the accolades I was getting from the press. Mel and I were the men of the hour and thereby untouchable. Not only did we grab the bad guy, we did it the same day as the borough meeting, which made the brass look good too. Hours after the “new strategy” had been formulated, an arrest had been made, which was the story they wanted, even if, realistically, a courageous victim and a bit of luck had everything to do with getting the rapist.
This was a particularly satisfying case, not only because we got the bad guy but also because the level of cooperation from the victim was outstanding. She was one impressive individual, and our focus and intensity was to right the grave wrong inflicted on her and the other victims. To have her with us when we took the guy down was very rewarding.
* * *
Not all of my cases were as gratifying. Or they’re gratifying in a different way.
Timmy and I had gotten information from various neighborhood sources that there were two drug dealers operating in the precinct and nobody seemed to be able to get them. The decent folks from the neighborhood had been complaining. The word was they ran their business openly on the street, selling heroin and weed, so we didn’t think we’d have a problem collaring them.
The first day we cruised the area we observed the dealers exactly where our sources said they would be: standing on their street corner awaiting customers. These were young Hispanic guys, early twenties, who had an unconcerned air about them. Usually street dealers are extremely wary. Not these guys; they were joking around and seemed as if they didn’t have a care in the world. We hoped to change all that.
We parked around the corner and approached them on foot. Before they knew what was happening, Timmy and I grabbed one mope each and began a thorough search. We didn’t find anything incriminating.
“Where’s your stash?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. I wanted to get a baseline for how they lied to compare with how they told the truth, for example in telling us their names.
They denied everything, of course, but it was obvious they were lying. After the usual threats to cease a
nd desist selling drugs and to clear out of the neighborhood, we left.
The next day we drove past the same corner, and there they were as if nothing had happened. We approached them again. In addition to not having any contraband, they also developed an attitude.
“You can’t harass us—we ain’t done nothin’.”
As we drove away, Timmy and I decided that it was going to be our mission to get these assholes with their goods.
We figured they had identified our unmarked car, so we took to using our own personal vehicles. We watched them talk to numerous customers, but from our vantage point we couldn’t tell for certain if drugs passed hands. Occasionally, one or both would enter the apartment building they were standing in front of. When the customers departed, we’d swoop in and confront the suspects. Still nothing. To further confuse them, we switched to my motorcycle, me driving, Timmy on the back, with the same results. They were clean every time we searched them. We were beginning to feel ineffective, not a mind-set we were used to experiencing.
We decided to modify our tactics. We would observe them through binoculars from a rooftop a few buildings down. When they entered the building, we’d sprint across the adjoining roofs and down into their building, trapping them.
We were on our roof for hours before our suspects arrived at their designated corner. Like a shop opening for the day, their customers started cycling by. After two hours, their client base slowed, and they went into the building.
We leapt into action and dashed across the several roofs on our way to theirs. One problem: their building was the only one on the block that was unattached. There was a ten-foot gap between the buildings that we hadn’t seen from the street because of a fake façade.
“Now what the fuck do we do?” Timmy asked when we came to a sudden stop near the roof’s edge.
We could make a running start and take the leap, but it was a sixty-foot drop to the alley and we were weighted down with guns, flashlights, and other gear. Then I spotted the plank.
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