“I slid my nightstick out of my belt and walked over. The dealer, who was facing me, turned and began to walk the other way. He knew the argument would give me probable cause for a frisk and he was obviously dirty. Chubs, on the other hand, was too drunk to realize how fragile his situation was.
“‘What you want, pig?’
“I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I knew I couldn’t just let it end there. I started out by calling him a subhuman piece of shit. I was almost whispering. I told him he should be in a cage instead of on the street. There was all kinds of hesitation in his eyes. Not that he was afraid. He was too drunk to be afraid. He just couldn’t figure out what I was after.
“So I showed him what I was after by spitting flat in his face and he finally took a swing at me. There was no chance that he was going to hit me. It was a set-up all the way. I stepped off to the left, waited until he stumbled forward, then swung the nightstick with both hands like it was a baseball bat.
“The only thing that saved me from a departmental investigation was that he did have a knife in his pocket along with a small vial of cocaine. And I didn’t kill him. I just fixed it so he wouldn’t eat solids for six months and required seven operations to reconstruct his lower face.”
By the time Captain Allen Epstein made his way to the Killarney Harp, Moodrow was on his second plate of corned beef and cabbage and Detective Jim Tilley was having a celebratory dinner with his mother in a German restaurant in Yorkville. The empty beer bottles had been collected and replaced with coffee and Moodrow had visited the men’s room to wash his face with cold water.
“You mind if I sit?” Epstein asked, jerking Moodrow’s attention away from his plate.
“You gotta ask? What’s the matter with you?”
“Same old shit, Stanley. With three lieutenants in the precinct who already passed the captain’s exam, you can’t expect no peace. They’re like vultures, for Christ sake. Like kids waiting around for Grandpa to kick off. Come to me with those shit-eating grins. ‘Just a suggestion, Captain.’ I look in the mirror and I think I’m a hundred years old.” He stopped long enough to order a Miller’s from a passing waitress, then launched back into it. “I’m looking at property in Florida. Me and Alma. Not that I’m going without a fight, but I wanna be ready. It’s my nature, for Christ sake. So how’d you make out with young Jim Tilley?”
“It’s like I figured. He’s ambitious and he thinks he has to do things by the book. But he can’t get rid of that macho prizefighter bit, either. Kid’s living in two worlds. He’s not street-wise, but he is street-hard and he’s got a fucking brain. That’s the important part. He’s too smart to get lost in the bullshit. I just gotta find a way to make him realize it. I gotta make him understand that he cares about the civilians. That there ain’t no point, if you don’t.”
Quickly, Moodrow outlined the day’s events, including Katjcic’s assertion that Greenwood’s partner was a cop. He’d deliberately held back that piece of news, knowing the effect it would have on his friend. Allen Epstein had spent his working life trying to protect the 7th Precinct from outsiders and now the headhunters would descend in droves, drawn like flies to the blood of a corrupt cop.
“I can’t say I haven’t considered it,” Epstein admitted, “but it still hurts. The dope is what does it. Too much money out there. You going to the task force with it?”
“I really don’t think we can do that. We might be pumping information right back to Greenwood.”
Moodrow sat back and sipped his coffee, considering the options. Word of a scandal in the 7th would effectively end Allen Epstein’s career. As would any extensive delay in the apprehension of Levander Greenwood. And without Allen Epstein to cover his back, Moodrow’s own career had the life expectancy of a butterfly in a blizzard.
“How long you think we have before the brass comes down on us?” Moodrow asked.
“They’re already checking in. I got a call from the commissioner asking me to give the case my ‘personal’ attention. Then the chief called, then a deputy mayor. It’s gonna be a fun investigation.”
“Actually,” Moodrow said, sincerely, “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I wish my goddamn ulcer could say the same,” Epstein returned. “The sad part is I remember when I used to jump into cases like this. I was eager. Now all I wanna do is make the precinct quota for summonses and go home. Which I can never even do that ’cause the goddamn portables won’t give out tickets unless the sergeant points at the car and says, ‘Write.’”
Moodrow had heard all this before. Heard it many times over the years. It was irrelevant to him; he had never been part of the bureaucracy of the job. But he knew he could trust Epstein and that, for all the bullshit, Epstein wanted Greenwood as badly as Moodrow did.
“So what’re you gonna do, Captain?”
Epstein sat up straight. “Any patrolman doesn’t make his quota is gonna get vacation time in February. I’ll have the bastards working traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge in a snow storm. I don’t…”
“For Christ sake, man. I’m not talking about tickets. I’m talking about Greenwood.”
“Greenwood?”
“Yeah, Greenwood. The guy who killed a cop and a journalist. Remember?”
“I think I’ll go to the D.A.’s office. See if we can keep the cop thing under wraps without going too far outside of regulations. What about you? What’re you gonna do tonight?”
Moodrow tossed his napkin onto his plate and stood up. “I’m gonna go to work. What else would I be doing?”
But Allen Epstein’s beeper went off before Moodrow could get the check, and the obligatory telephone call transmitted news of gunshots fired, of cops killed and wounded, of an urgent summons to a deathbed in a private room at Bellevue Hospital.
Even as they left the bar, Epstein was composing two statements: one for the press and one for the brass.
POLICE DEPARTMENT: CITY OF NEW YORK
TAPE TRANSCRIPTION LABEL PD641-447 (4/85)
tape# 4401 case# MC201 loc 7th Pct
tape date 8/10/90 trans, date 8/11/90
transcribed by Benjamin Wright
sig.
civ. emp.# 4381-99-766 badge § xxxxxxxx
pers: DA Samuel Weiser
Captain Allen Epstein
Pet. Paul Kirkpatrick
Pet. Charles O’Neill
Pet. S. Moodrow
Dr. Marvin Jackson
Ptlmn. Franklyn Peters
cross reference 7th Pet Homicide 7-675
EPSTEIN: one, two, three…
WEISER: For shit sake, Epstein. He’s going out again. Get the doctor. What’s his name? Jackson? Tell him I want his ass in here until we finish with Peters’ statement. O’NEILL: Take it easy. Take it easy. Hey, Franklyn, can you hold onto it? Just a couple more minutes.
JACKSON: What’s wrong?
WEISER: For Christ sake, the guy’s practically out of it.
JACKSON: What’d you expect? Mr. Peters is heavily sedated. I’m surprised he’s stayed awake this long.
WEISER: Can’t you give him something to keep him up? We need five minutes to get a statement.
JACKSON: No way. He’s still bleeding internally. I want him quiet.
WEISER: Are you fucking kidding me? You just told me he’s gonna die. Now you want him ‘quiet’? He’s gonna be quiet for a long time, Doctor.
EPSTEIN: C’mon, Simon. It’s not the doctor’s fault.
WEISER: I want a dying declaration, Allen. I want an i.d. that’ll stand up. I want when we catch this piece of shit, he’ll get so many life sentences, even the fucking bleeding hearts won’t be able to get him out. I want he should die in jail. Now, for shit sake, Doc, does he have a chance or doesn’t he?
JACKSON: He has no chance.
WEISER: Then wake him up for ten minutes. Let him at least get even with the animal that did this to him.
JACKSON: I can’t.
WEISER: Bullshit!
JACKSON:
I want to help you, Mr. Weiser, but I can’t deliberately administer a medication that might hasten a patient’s death.
WEISER: Bullshit!
JACKSON: Bullshit? You forget that you prosecuted a doctor from this hospital for giving a morphine overdose to a ninety-four-year-old man with advanced Alzheimer’s? You forget all the speeches you made about prosecutions for euthanasia? You forget the Sunday morning TV interviews? Hey, pal, read my lips: fuck you.
MOODROW: Wait a second. Hold it. He’s coming around. You hear me, Franklyn?
PETERS: Yeah. I hear you.
MOODROW: Do you know who I am?
PETERS: Moodrow, tell the doctor to give me something for the pain. My guts’re on fire.
JACKSON: I can give him more morphine.
WEISER: You wanna put him asleep? He just woke up and you wanna put him back asleep? I feel like I’m talking to a goddamn Martian. Hey, schmuck, read my lips: fuck you, too. Is the tape running, Epstein? Is the fucking tape at least running?
EPSTEIN: It’s running. Go ahead and get the statement.
MOODROW: Franklyn, you know how bad you’re wounded, right?
PETERS: Yeah.
MOODROW: I gotta tell you it don’t look good for you. The doctor says you ain’t gonna make it.
PETERS: I figured that.
MOODROW: We want your statement, Franklyn. It’s a dying declaration. You understand what I’m saying? It’s admissible if I tell you beforehand that you’re gonna die.
WEISER: He’s falling asleep.
MOODROW: For shit sake, Weiser. I just told the poor bastard he’s not gonna make it. Can’t you give him a second to think about it? Hey, Franklyn, can you talk? Help us get this guy.
PETERS: It was Levander Greenwood.
MOODROW: Are you sure?
PETERS: His picture’s been all over the precinct for the last week. Plus I knew him from the street. Everybody figured taking him would get them out of uniform. Get them a gold shield.
MOODROW: Then you’re identifying the man who shot you as Levander Greenwood.
PETERS: Yes.
MOODROW: Did Levander Greenwood also shoot Officer Cruz?
PETERS: Yes.
MOODROW: Do you think you could tell us what happened this afternoon?
O’NEILL: Jesus Christ, he’s folding up.
JACKSON: He’s in pain.
WEISER: Don’t put him to sleep. We just need a couple of minutes more.
PETERS: I’m all right.
MOODROW: Tell us what happened, Franklyn. From when you got the call.
PETERS: Me and Cruz were in 7 Adam. About four hours into our watch, Central ordered us and 7 Henry to switch over to channel 3. That’s Special Ops. There was a detective on the mike I didn’t know. Identified himself as Carero, something like that. He ordered us to proceed to an apartment building at 887 Henry Street. 7 Henry was ordered to cover the front and back entrances. We were ordered to secure the third floor landing. The perpetrator…
WEISER: What the fuck happened?
MOODROW: I think he fell asleep.
PETERS: (unintelligible)
MOODROW: Can you speak a little louder, Franklyn?
PETERS: Carero said the perpetrator was in apartment 4C. Levander Greenwood. Wanted for murder. We all knew who he was.
O’NEILL: Christ, he’s coughin’ blood.
MOODROW: Just keep on talking, Franklyn. The doctor’s right here.
PETERS: We were ordered to secure the third floor landing.…Did I say that?
MOODROW: Don’t worry about it. Just keep talking.
PETERS: Nobody was allowed to go up and if anyone came down, they had to stay down. Carero said the task force would have a SWAT team ready in fifteen minutes. Just keep him bottled up for fifteen minutes.
The only thing was he had the wrong apartment. As we proceeded up to the third floor, I heard a noise behind me and he was standing there in a doorway. I had my gun in my hand, pointing up at the ceiling, but I didn’t get close to bringing it down. Greenwood opened up with a twelve gauge without giving us any warning. You understand? He didn’t say, ‘drop it’ or ‘freeze.’ It was an execution.
I thought getting shot wouldn’t hurt. My brother was shot in Vietnam and he said he didn’t feel anything at first. But this hurt like hell. My gut was torn open and it was like someone poured kerosene inside there and lit it. I could feel my organs trying to slide out and I kept pushing them back in. Cruz didn’t say a word. He laid on top of me and his blood ran down in my face. I know I was screaming and trying to kick my partner away, but he was so heavy. I thought the whole world was lying on top of me.
JACKSON: He’s asleep.
EPSTEIN: We get enough, Simon? Can we let his wife in now?
WEISER: Yeah. We got it.
EPSTEIN: Wait a second.
WEISER: What? What’s wrong?
EPSTEIN: I forgot to label the tape.
WEISER: So do it now.
EPSTEIN: Date is August 10. Case number: MC201. Place is Bellevue Hospital, Intensive Care Unit #4. Witness is Patrolman Franklyn Peters, shield number 1677. Present: Simon Weiser, District Attorney; Allen Epstein, Captain, 7th Precinct; Detectives James Kirkpatrick, Charles O’Neill and Stanley Moodrow, 7th Precinct; Doctor…What’s your name, Doc?
JACKSON: Jackson.
EPSTEIN: Doctor Jackson. This is a dying declaration.
8
THE NEXT DAY, SATURDAY, was, theoretically, Jim Tilley’s day off. Unfortunately, just like in the movies, real detectives work whatever hours the job demands. A detective might, for instance, spend a month sitting through a series of eight-hour stakeouts, his life as regular as any clock-puncher’s, then suddenly be assigned to a case (like Levander Greenwood’s) where the public demands an immediate arrest. Then all bets are off and he works fourteen-hour days until his family can’t (or won’t, more likely) recognize him.
This is only one of a number of ways in which cops are the victims of the criminals they pursue. Even worse is the tendency of most cops to carry the job home. In spite of the inevitable macho barroom attitude, certain memories repeat themselves, like the words of familiar songs, for days or even weeks before they’re finally buried deep enough to display themselves only in nightmares. As he pulled on his running shoes, Jim Tilley remembered clearly the first time it happened to him. He had dreamed of it only moments before.
The incident had taken place about three o’clock on a warm October afternoon. A drunk had stepped in front of a bus on Myrtle Avenue just as the driver turned his head to check the side mirror before pulling into traffic. The bus wasn’t going very fast when it hit the man, but it picked him up anyway. Picked him up and tossed him through the rear window of a double-parked Buick.
Tilley saw the whole thing coming, saw the drunk stagger toward the curb, the bus driver’s head swivel to the right, the enormous steering wheel starting to spin. He yelled for the man (his name turned out to be Sam Watson) to stop, but his voice only blended with the boozy haze surrounding all those reflexes which keep human beings from stepping in front of buses.
Mr. Watson’s throat was cut to the bone by the window glass and he was spurting blood on the occupants of the Buick, an elderly black lady and her two grandchildren. For a moment the scene froze that way, the only movement being the pulsing jets of blood spraying the passengers of the car. Then the old lady jumped out into the street and began to scream at the bus driver. She called him an “ignorant, nappy-haired homeboy,” said he was “common” and “trash.” Meanwhile, the driver’s eyes never left Sam Watson’s body. Tilley thought the poor bastard was in shock, but when he pulled him away and told him to wait in the bus, the driver turned and shook his head, disgustedly.
“Fucking asshole.” He pointed over at the dead man. “You believe that fucking asshole? This is my third accident. They’re gonna fry me for this. Man, I got kids.”
“Common trash. You hear me, homeboy?” the woman shouted as he disappeared into the bus. The two kids
wouldn’t stop crying. They were young, maybe six or seven, and they held hands and bawled as they waited for Granny to regain enough composure to comfort them.
Tilley couldn’t shake the memory for weeks. Not the ugliness or even the blood. He had seen death coming and been unable to defeat it. Whenever he closed his eyes, it was there again. Sam Watson lurching toward the curb, the bus pulling away, the enormous force of the impact despite the slow speed, the dark, emaciated body flying through the air like an enormous dart, piercing the glass. For about ten seconds Sam Watson’s legs stuck straight up in the air, then slowly fell to the top of the Buick’s trunk. The blood, dark in the shadows, covered the inside of the windows. In his dreams it drenched the two kids and the old woman.
“What am I gonna do about this car?” the old woman asked him as he took down her name for the report. “You don’t suppose Mr. Trash over there is gonna clean up his mess?”
Tilley was on the job three months when Sam Watson bought it and for the first couple of days he couldn’t sleep at all. It was like someone had painted the scene on the back of his eyelids so that whenever he tried to close them, the bus started moving all over again. Then it got better. By the third night he was so exhausted he went out the minute he hit the pillow and didn’t dream until nearly daybreak. By the seventh day it was only an occasional flash and now, finally, an instant of panic when he saw a pedestrian walk too close to a moving bus.
Louise Greenwood and Marlee came home with Jim Tilley just as Sam Watson had done, along with Rose Carillo and her two children. The only difference was that now he recognized the scenario and he knew it’d work itself out if he gave it enough time. That’s why, at 5 AM on Saturday morning, he’d abandoned any hope of a night’s sleep. He jumped into his shorts and a PAL t-shirt, laced up well-worn Nikes and trotted to the walkway over the East River Drive. A series of thunderstorms had passed through the city around 2 AM, flashing enough thunder and lightning to jolt him out of the trance he’d been substituting for sleep. A Canadian front trailed behind the storms and by the time he reached Carl Schurz Park, the temperature was twenty-five degrees cooler than it had been when he’d gone to sleep and a fresh breeze was blowing down the East River. He hit the bricks eagerly. There are aches and pains, Tilley was convinced, for which running was the only cure.
Force of Nature Page 8