The Grave Above the Grave

by Bernie B. Kerik

  Breshill watched the SUV leave from the bottom of the exit. His nose told him there was more of a story here than Raymond was letting on, and he was going to get it. First.

  In the silence, Raymond suddenly cursed out loud, meant for neither Shelby nor Archer. “Motherfucker!” Then he took a deep breath, threw his head back, and squeezed his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “How the hell did Breshill find that out?” he asked Archer.

  “That prick knows everything. Ever since he’s become the star of the New York Herald, he’s become the self-appointed guardian-of-the-people.”

  There was silence until they got to Park Avenue, when Raymond said to Archer, “I want to see where those kids were shot.” Archer repeated the command to Shelby, then raised his arm to his mouth and talked into the small black microphone that peeked out from his sleeve. “Eagle One to Eagle Three. The commissioner is not heading to his residence. I repeat—the commissioner is not heading to his residence. We’re heading over to 44 and Broadway. We’re 15 out.”

  Raymond wanted to call Sheilah and leave her a message for when she got up, to tell her that he was all right but not sure when he would be back, but before they crossed Madison, he had leaned his head back, hoping to catch a few quick ZZZs.

  I had always wanted to be a police officer, to protect the city I loved. Just out of high school, barely 18 years old, I spent three years in the U.S. Army, training that proved invaluable for me when I was honorably discharged. I enrolled in John Jay University, to study criminal justice. At 25, I received my BS degree, and joined the New York City Police Department. I came up through the ranks, and in 1999 became a captain, and the following year, took command of the 1st Precinct in Lower Manhattan. I was determined to keep the city safe and great. I had no idea then, how difficult and horrendous that pledge would turn out to be.

  I remember rushing toward the Towers on September 11, 2001. I was 37 years old. I was working in the 1st Precinct when the calls came in. Two planes had hit the Twin Towers, throwing the city into chaos and the world into monstrous disorder. The affected areas of Lower Manhattan, south of Houston Street, were originally divided into seven zones, Zone 1 more commonly referred to as Ground Zero. That’s where I headed. I wasn’t sure, no one was, how bad the damage was, how many officers we had lost or were wounded, if the city was going to be standing when the sun went down. I gritted my teeth, determined to do whatever I could, for anybody who needed my help, even as my official car sped directly into Hell. I wanted to save my friends, my compadres, my family. Who did they think they were that they could hit the greatest city in the world. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I heard the news; in addition to the attack in New York City, the Pentagon had been hit, and a flight had gone down in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. United Flight 93. My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. My wife, Mary, was on that flight out of Newark to San Francisco. I wanted to make them pay . . . I still do . . .

  Here we go again, Raymond thought to himself, as his memories slowly morphed into a dream and he fitfully slipped into a brief but deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  3:55 am, Wednesday, 4 October

  Raymond snapped awake just as the Suburban pulled up to 44th and Broadway, having been passed through the police line. Times Square and its immediate perimeter, from 41st to 46th, Seventh Avenue and Broadway, had been completely shut down and sealed off. He and Archer got out and walked down to the immediate crime scene. “My God,” Raymond thought, as they got closer to the bullet-blistered police vehicle. “It looks like Sonny’s car on the Causeway.” He then turned and said to a two-star chief, the uniformed Manhattan Borough commander, “Anything from the cameras yet?”

  “Affirmative,” the commander said. “We definitely got him getting on a northbound A Train, but don’t know where he got off.” Raymond thanked him, and he and Archer proceeded to walk the area, still buzzing with dozens of uniforms making notes, taking photos, talking on phones, and keeping civilians and the press behind the yellow lines. Many of them had never met the commissioner, or even seen him in person before, except the day they were sworn in, and Raymond made it a point to stop and talk to every one of them, shake their hands, and offer a few words of thanks, reminding them all to be careful.

  He and Archer then returned to the Suburban and got in. “Let’s go home,” Raymond said. Archer spoke into the mike on his sleeve. “Eagle One to Eagle Three. We’re heading for the Castle.” Shelby navigated west via 45th Street. When he reached the West Side Highway, he made a right and slipped into the flow of traffic headed north. As he did so, he killed the flashers. It was 6:35 am. There was little outbound traffic and not yet a heavy flow on the other side, coming into the city. To the left, the Hudson River looked shining and inviting, like a high-priced call girl.

  The peace was interrupted by the beeping of the police radio. The dispatcher’s crackling voice came on and said, “A confirmed 10-13 over division in the Two-Six, vicinity of 125th Street and Broadway.” That got Raymond’s attention—a 10-13, officer needs assistance in the 26th Precinct. The dispatcher continued, “Two-Six anticrime is in pursuit of a suspect fitting the description of the suspect in the Midtown South shooting.” Now Raymond bolted up and forward. Archer switched the radio to the Two-Six’s frequency, the precinct that covered 125th Street. “Shots fired Central! Two-Six sergeant to Central. Shots fired . . . cop down at one-two-five and Broadway . . . get a bus . . . suspect running toward the Westside Highway just off Broadway!”

  Raymond hugged the back of the front seat as Shelby floored the Suburban, turned on the siren, and flipped the flashers back on. He took the exit at 125th Street hard, then slammed on the brakes as he skidded into a curve, exiting the highway onto the ramp, making a right on 125th toward Broadway. They could hear other police vehicles heading in the same direction, and their sirens got louder as Raymond’s Suburban got closer. Midway between Broadway and the Westside Highway, they saw about eight uniformed and plainclothes cops running after a man, who was heading straight toward the Suburban. “That’s the guy!” Raymond yelled, pointing at the runner. In pursuit, an unmarked car, with siren blaring, blew through a stop sign. The suspect bolted to his left, pivoted, and fired a pistol at the oncoming car. “Hit that motherfucker!” Raymond screamed at Shelby, and he, Shelby, and Archer braced themselves as they slammed head-on into the other vehicle, the suspect caught between the two. He shrieked once, crazily, as blood spurted from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his ears, and then he went silent, as blood, like a red geyser, spurted up from a hole in the top of his head.

  Raymond managed to kick open his accordioned door and get out. Shelby and Archer had been saved by their airbags, and they, too, were able to exit the vehicle. The three then rushed to where two officers struggled to jerk the dead body loose from between the two cars. The driver behind the unmarked vehicle was finally able to start it and put it into reverse. The engine rattled loudly as he rolled the car back slowly, just enough to have the suspect drop, his lower extremities covered in blood, piss, and shit. Several uniformed officers had by now arrived and began setting up a perimeter, as Raymond began to search for the perp’s gun. One of the officers checked for a pulse, confirming the obvious.

  All of a sudden, every uniformed and plainclothes cop there, perhaps 20 of them at this point, just stood there staring at Raymond. No one moved. Then one heavy-set sergeant in uniform broke the ice and said softly, “Holy fuck, the PC killed the cop killer . . .” The other cops didn’t know if they should cheer, laugh, or remain stoic, while the police radios went ballistic that Car 1, the police commissioner’s car, was involved in the pursuit and hit the perp.

  Raymond could feel the nausea cooking up in his stomach. He stood up, so far unable to find the perp’s gun, and pulled out his cell to call the mayor, when the phone started ringing in his hand. He looked at it for a moment, saw it was the mayor, and hit the answer button. Alway
s first, Raymond flashed to himself. “Is it true?” he heard the mayor ask. “You killed the suspect?” Before Raymond could say anything, the mayor added, “With your fucking car? Are you okay?” The mayor went on, “Meet me in City Hall at 8 am. Did you notify Dannis yet?”

  Raymond was sure now he was going to throw up. “No sir, but I will. See you then.”

  What the mayor didn’t know when he asked that question was that the saber-sharp Manhattan DA Sheilah Dannis, a widow whose husband had died suddenly from cancer eight years earlier, was actually lying in his bed in his apartment in the Bronx. At the relatively young age of 44, she had become one of the most prominent prosecutors in the country, having moved steadily up the ladder, starting as a loyal first assistant to the former district attorney, who had held the office for 25 years until his overdue retirement. She had then run for the office herself. To her delight, and to the surprise of many—after all, this was still politically a testosterone-driven town—she was elected in a landslide. It also put the mayor’s office in her career binoculars.

  Dannis immediately became something of a media favorite due in no small part to the fact that she was photogenic. Cameras loved her dirty-blond good looks, her wide smile, and her friendly but no-nonsense manner. She was tall and slim and in great physical shape, all of which made her look at least a decade younger than her 44 years. Every morning, by 6:30, she was in the gym, working out, before going to her office, causing the tabloids to dub her “Wonder DA.” The public loved it—and her.

  That morning, just past six, the snooze alarm on her iPhone had done its thing, and she was gingerly getting out of bed. She had barely slept, the night filled with what seemed like nonstop phone calls from her office about the Times Square shooting. Little did her office staff know that she knew about the shooting long before they did, because she was lying next to the police commissioner when he was notified. She had hoped to get at least an uninterrupted hour or two of sleep before heading downtown, but it never happened. No stopping at the gym, either, not this morning. She took a quick shower and was about to head out, figuring to do her make-up in the car, when her cell phone began to ring again. She sighed. This was not going to stop. When she saw it was Raymond, she was happy it wasn’t the office. “Hi,” she said.

  Before he could say anything, she got another call, this one from her chief of staff, Stephanie Mills, who was also her best friend; Mills had been with her from the beginning, when Dannis was working in the DA’s office and Mills was assigned to narcotics. She told Raymond to hold, and clicked over. “What is it?”

  “You haven’t heard, have you. Rick killed the cop killer.”

  “What?”

  As Mills began to fill in the details, Sheilah interrupted her to get back to Raymond on the other line. “He can fill me in,” she said.

  “Don’t talk to him now,” Mills snapped. “Have him call me. There’s going to be a grand jury investigation, and we need to keep you out of it if we can. Disconnect, and I’ll call Raymond. I’ll just tell him why you can’t talk.”

  Dannis said goodbye and shut her phone off, slipped on a light coat, and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  5:30 am, Wednesday, 4 October

  Raymond wondered why Sheilah cut him off. He was about to re–speed dial, when his chief of staff, Jerry Gallagher, who had just arrived at the scene, came up to him. “Let me take a look at this bastard,” Gallagher said. He asked a detective to show him the body, still on the ground, smelling like a mixture of fresh hot shit and vinegar piss, the blood pool starting to thicken into death jelly. He stood up, took a deep breath, and he and Raymond went over to his car, where Shelby and Archer were. Gallagher said he would take Raymond to City Hall, but Shelby and Archer were going to have to remain behind to do the accident report, and to meet with Internal Affairs to give a statement. Raymond would prepare his statement at the office later.

  By now, dozens of NYPD uniforms from at least three precincts, along with members of the FBI JTTF—the Joint Terrorism Task Force—and other federal agents and the New York State Police, had gathered at the scene, as well as a group of reporters who were roped off about two blocks away. Detectives from the Two-Six continued to comb through the accident scene, interviewing the cops from the other car and bagging evidence. They put two cell phones they had found on the suspect’s body into two separate bags, his wallet in another one, with his New Jersey driver’s license taken out and placed face up. The name on it was Samir Abdullah Bakheer. It had a Main Street, Paterson, New Jersey, address.

  JTTF ran the name and immediately discovered that Bakheer was already on their target list. They informed the Manhattan North duty inspector, Pat Kelly, that JTTF was handling the shooting of the two cops as a terror investigation. Also rolling up to the scene of the collision was Chelsea Jones, FBI assistant director of the New York field division. Jones was attractive, but focused on her job and not at all interested in winning official or after-hours beauty contests. She was tall, lean, and hard, with dark, straight hair parted on the side and pushed back, and wore a minimum amount of make-up. When she heard that the commissioner was involved, she was relieved. They were professional colleagues and personal friends, and had known each other for 16 years, all the way back to the dark days of 9/11.

  Jones’s driver was on his phone giving his office the suspect’s address in Paterson and said, “Inspector, I just called the assistant U.S. attorney working this case to get a search warrant for the perp’s house. Our guys are going to hit it in 30 minutes. If you want to get some people out to Paterson, they can join us and see what’s what there.”

  Inspector Kelly immediately ordered one of his men, Sergeant Benning, to take a few police detectives out there, as two FBI agents jumped into their car. The detectives followed behind. The mini-caravan sped onto the Westside Highway up to the George Washington Bridge and onto the upper level, and on the other side of the Hudson they picked up Interstate 80.

  Following, not far behind, but not close enough to draw anyone’s attention, Breshill drove his company’s exhausted Honda Civic.

  The FBI and the New York City cops arrived at the staging area and were greeted by about a dozen Paterson police. At the same time, 12 special FBI SWAT team members were preparing to hit the suspect’s house. They had emerged from two black unmarked vans, armed with M4 machine guns. They were dressed completely in black, with black face masks and black helmets, with microphones and lights attached on top. Each wore a bulletproof vest, with a small embroidered American flag on the front, and the words “POLICE” in bold gray neon letters and “FBI,” smaller, underneath, on the back. Their assignment was to enter the house and clear it of suspects, weapons, explosives. The local police, the NYPD, and the New York and New Jersey FBI agents watched in silence as the SWAT team split into two groups, the first moving to the front porch of the house, the other to the rear. The first group was about to hit the front door when two gunshots came from the rear of the house. No one moved or said a word, until the FBI’s radio crackled: “Two shots fired. We have a dog down. Take the front door now.”

  Everyone exhaled.

  The first group of agents boomed their way in and cleared to the rear of the house, where they met up with the rear group. Then the full team loaded into their vans and were gone, having never said a word to anyone. The on-site FBI supervisor, out of the Newark field division, came on the radio and announced to his people, “Okay, we’ve got a green light on entry.”

  NYPD Sergeant Benning and his detectives and the FBI agents entered the house along with three local uniforms. One room in the house appeared to have been used as an office. Underneath a bureau drawer in the bedroom, the FBI found three different passports in a plastic bag. Benning examined them. Each had a different name, and all had the suspect’s face. The federal agents also found several boxes of 40mm cartridges, likely to match the ones used in the Midtown shooting, and a cache
of assault weapons, dozens of ISIS black flags, and photocopies of Inspire strewn everywhere. In the back of a closet, an ISIS flag was draped across a wall. An agent pulled it down. It was covering an eight-inch hole, inside of which were a handgun and $20,000 in U.S. currency.

  Benning and one of the FBI agents cataloged everything. Benning was sure this was the headquarters of the shooter, and that made it a federal jurisdiction case. Now he wanted to know why the shooter targeted the two cops in Times Square.

  Among the small crowd that had gathered was Sammy Breshill, who had drawn the same conclusion as the cops and agents and wondered the same thing. Breshill knew this was going to be a national story, and would hit every newspaper and TV news show before noon. His goal was to find out the connection between the murders and Bakheer before anyone else and put that on the front page of the New York Herald.

  With his byline.

  CHAPTER 4

  7:55 am, Wednesday, 4 October

  Raymond sat in the passenger seat of the SUV as Gallagher drove to City Hall, while Archer, still back at the incident scene, filled them in over the speakerphone on the FBI raid in Paterson, as it came over the phone, and described what they’d found on Bakheer. The good news was that Raymond had personally taken Bakheer down. The bad news was that meant a mandatory grand jury. Under the present circumstances, that could problematic for both his professional and personal relationship with Dannis; the two had been seeing each other for close to three years, and had done everything in their power to keep it secret to avoid the press and possible conflicts of interest, him being New York City’s top cop, and her being the district attorney responsible for prosecuting the NYPD’s cases—and unfortunately prosecuting members of the NYPD when they went south.