Circle of Six (33 page)

I was called in to his office, alone. I was under the false assumption that we were ready to go to trial, and my work was complete. “We have completely shut down their case, Randy. The problem is our presentation of the physicality.”

“What do you mean, physicality?” I asked, preoccupied with his edginess. Muldoon was never calm, and Jim Harmon was never anxious.

“We have no bullets from the scene, no photos of the crime scene, no fingerprints, no blood spatter. We have no physical evidence to connect all
the dots back to Dupree. And without connecting those dots, we have no case. We have to explain to the jury why we don't have these essentials to convict.”

My head was swimming. I'd assumed that with the testimony of Foster, and San-San's corroborating testimony, it'd be enough. But if any one of those pieces of physical evidence couldn't be linked back to Dupree, then this was just a garden-variety case of one man's word against another's. Then it comes down to believability. The defense would have a field day discrediting Foster. The jury would have to acquit. “What's the solution, Jim?” I wasn't expecting his answer.

“We have to come out asserting that the detectives on the scene could not gather the trace evidence or talk to any witnesses or detain prisoners, because they were removed from the scene by the NYPD. They didn't let the cops properly investigate the assaults and shooting. It wasn't our fault. It was their fault, the superior officers, thus allowing for no evidence to be collected and no statements to be given.”

Harmon moved from behind his desk to the window. He jabbed his finger repeatedly on the glass, as if it were the chest of a bully. I didn't have to look; I knew he was pointing at One PP in the distance. “Them, we have to tell the court exactly what they did, and more important,
didn't do
, on April 14, 1972.”

He turned to me, eyes deadly focused. “And we need names. These...” He had trouble saying, “
cops,
have to explain away their actions. Once the jury understands why the investigation was shut down, it will be easier for them to believe our exhibition of the case as to what really happened.”

This is it. The rank and file are finally getting their shot at the bosses,
I thought. I was now going toe-to-toe with the job. Harmon asked, “Are you okay with all this? Do you have a plan?”

Was I okay with it? Did I really have a choice? And as far as a plan, I'd have to acquire the bosses on the scene the same way I acquired the cops on the scene: roll calls, radio transcripts, and above all else,
the incident book.
The incident book was the temporary command log of the day's events. Anything that pertained to the case, phone calls, commands given by superior officers, who did what and where on the day of occurrence, and thereafter if it pertained to the Phil Cardillo murder, it was in that book. That book was either going to save or sink a lot of men, starting right at the top. I looked up at Harmon. It was a suicide mission. I said as calmly as I could, “Yes, I have a plan.”

“Good, and understand this: If they try to fuck with you, I'm going to show them the almighty power of the subpoena.”

I walked out, feeling condemned to death. I knew once bosses started to get subpoenaed to the DA's office, heads were going to roll, mine included. I could clearly see the end of my road.

I wasted no time. I knew the incident book was secured in one of two locations, Manhattan North Borough Command—the 2-4 Precinct—or the Zone-6 command—the 2-5 Precinct. I hit the 2-5 first. Thankfully, Muldoon wasn't working. He'd find out about the request for the incident book eventually, preferably after it was secured at the DA's office. I requested the book from his
124 man
, or clerical man. The cop behind the desk couldn't move fast enough. He knew the aggravation and heartache that was attached to me, and anyone who was unlucky enough to cross paths with me. He came back and said, “Detective, the incident book isn't here. I've been working the 124 for more than three years, and honestly, I've never seen it before.”

I wasn't too nervous. I assumed it was kept under lock-and-key by the Chief of Manhattan North, whose office was in the borough command at the 2-4. I thanked the cop and headed to borough command.

I had no problem with requisitioning the book from the 124 man at the borough command. What cop in his right mind would walk into the second most powerful building in the city after One PP and have the balls to ask for something without actually having permission to get it? I was lucky, because this 124 man was the same guy who had shuffled his feet when I tried to get Phil's uniform. He wanted no part of me or this investigation. I asked him for the book, authority of Assistant District Attorney James Harmon. Before I finished my sentence, he moved to an overflowing file cabinet, which he pulled open then slammed shut. He briskly approached me, not looking in my eyes, “The incident book was signed out by a
Sergeant Jones
of the Records Section on February 13, 1975.”

“The Records Section at headquarters?” I asked with great hope that there was a records section other than the one at the porcelain palace. He verified my fear. I'd have to go to the puzzle palace to get the book.

I didn't realize that I was on a wild goose chase until I ventured into the Records Section at headquarters. I asked for the incident book. The man looked at me like I had testicles for ears. He asked, “What incident book is it you're looking for?”

“You know, the one where the cop was murdered inside the mosque on 116th Street. Surely you've heard of it?” He scratched his chin as though
he was trying to decide if the socks should match the pants or the shoes. He turned and disappeared into the back office. He returned in five minutes seemingly—if at all possible—more confused. “Gotta tell ya, Detective, not only do we not have that incident book, but there is no Sergeant Jones assigned here.”

He tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders.

I felt the blood rushing through my veins, saw the involuntary motion of my fingers drumming violently on the ugly Plexiglas counter. I was now at the threshold of
my
pain, tolerance level maxed-the-fuck-out. I slammed my hand over and over on the counter. The cop jumped back. I pointed at him, spit shooting from my mouth. “You go back there and either get me that book or Sergeant Jones, I ain't leaving without one or the other.”

He held up both his hands as though he was saying,
okay, just don't shoot
. He rushed into the back office. Almost immediately, a uniformed lieutenant stepped out, moving defiantly to the counter. “Who are you, and what is the purpose of your business here?”

I pulled out my shield and coldly said, “I'm here on the Cardillo murder. I was at the 2-5 in search of the incident book, where I was directed to the 2-4, where it was allegedly being secured. They told me it was signed out by one of your men, Sergeant Jones. I saw his signature and his command. Now I am here on authority of the Manhattan DA's office. I want the incident book, and by God I ain't leaving this building till I get it.”

He was calm but projected authority in his tone. “Now listen to me, I can tell you right now, there is no Sergeant Jones working in this unit, but I will go and see if I can't find that book. Just have a seat.”

“I'll stand.”

He turned on his heels, “As you will.”

I stood at the counter, same position, for the better part of an hour. The lieutenant returned, no more helpful than before. His news was the same: There was no Sergeant Jones ever assigned to One PP's Records Section, and there was never a requisition of the incident book.

I dropped my head in defeat. The last piece of evidence had been sabotaged and probably destroyed. The lieutenant was rambling on. He was midsentence when I looked at him and said, “A cop killer. That's who these scumbags, your partners upstairs, are protecting. Bunch of ball-less cowards running this job, you know that?”

He tried to save face. “Now listen, I am not a part of any cover-up. You came in and—”

“I know what the fuck I came in here asking for, and I should've known better.”

“You're bordering on insubordination, Detective.”

I made a face as if I'd just bitten into a lemon and said, “Fuck this place.”

I walked out, livid with the thought that a group of men were now collectively committing premeditated crimes. Someone had stolen official police documents—the incident book—and was continually impeding an investigation, and also committing hindrance, just the way Minister Farrakhan and Josephs had done. If I found out who stole that incident book, I was going to arrest him, and I didn't give a rat's ass if it was the police commissioner himself.

I went back to my car. It was papered with another parking ticket. Now they were just pouring salt into the wound. I'd had enough. I drove uptown to the 6th division and I
liberated
an official police parking permit or plate. I drove to the Hollywood office, where Larry Marinelli did what he did best, suspended disbelief. He used his artistic and mechanical skills to imprint an exact duplicate of the parking permit. Then he laminated it, and to the untrained eye, I was
good to go.
I brought the original plate back up to the 2-5, then headed back down to Harmon to deliver the bad news.

Harmon was relatively nonplussed with what I saw as damning news. In my absence, he had had the wherewithal to calm down and regroup. Any hasty decisions would be detrimental, and I agreed. He said, “Well, you now have to go back to your cops and get all of the names of the bosses who they saw on the day of occurrence. Get their statements as to what the superiors commanded them to do. Once we have the cops' statements, we'll bring in these...
bosses
.”

The bosses and the mosque may have had the NYPD behind them, secretly pulling the strings, but Harmon had the United States judicial system behind him, and he knew how to use it. His first objective was to let them know he was aware of the disposal of the incident book. He drew up a letter stating that subpoenas would be acquired for every superior officer who commanded a cop during the incident, made a phone call in regard to the incident, said anything on the police radio about the incident, wrote a report in response to the incident, or had any conversations with any members of the mosque on the day of the incident. The letter also stated that he would bring in any man who sat down with Minister Farrakhan to offer apologies for their actions, including the police commissioner.

Harmon sent the letter to the PC himself. By doing so, he had officially declared war on the NYPD.

As I drove to Fifty-fourth Street, I dreaded pulling in those sixty-seven cops all over again, not because it was busywork, but because so much time had elapsed. It would be too easy for cops to start pulling names out of the air on guys they didn't like or didn't see firsthand. I decided to call two of the biggest players on the day of occurrence. I knew I'd get everything I asked for, because they had absolutely nothing to hide: former Chief of Detectives Albert Seedman, and the former 2-8 Precinct Commander, Inspector Jack Haugh—both happily retired, and doing quite well in private industry. Within two hours, both men had given up every man they witnessed on the scene. Haugh had more interaction with the peripheral men, as he was the commander of the precinct of occurrence, the 2-8. Seedman had more knowledge of the men inside the mosque, in particular the men who unscrupulously brokered
the deal
that never transpired—all detainees would be brought in for questioning that afternoon, including Minister Farrakhan, Congressman Charles Rangel, Ben Ward, and Captain Josephs of the FOI. They were the core of men who illegally separated cops by race, completely eradicated the crime scene, and shut down the subsequent murder investigation. That was what changed police policy and structure and was the defining moment when the NYPD walked away from its responsibilities as a law enforcement entity. This was not only allowed, but also asserted by Mayor John Lindsay and Police Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy. All this was perpetrated while a cop lay dying fifty feet away.

Because of that miserable fucked-up
brokered deal,
Harmon's back was to the wall, and he didn't have a case to bring to court. Harmon had to overachieve as he had never done before.

I made a list of the men who should surely be subpoenaed and delivered it to Harmon's office. While there, I received a call from Vito. An official teletype had been sent to the 2-5 and then circulated throughout the entire department's teletype, meaning everyone in all seventy-five precincts would be privy to this command:
Detective Randy Jurgensen is hereby duly commanded to report to the office of the Manhattan North borough commander at 0900 hours on the immediate day tour regardless of tour status.
I was being led to the gallows. After reading the teletype, Vito offered his condolences, and said he'd be there with me all the way. I placed the phone in its cradle and walked out without saying a word to Harmon.

I finally saw the end, not only to my career, but to the case as well. I
assumed this was the job's way of delivering its coup de grâce, its final play. By throwing me to the wolves—suspending or firing me—they'd succeed in discrediting me, further weakening an already iffy case. They had Farrakhan's people going after Foster and probably San-San. Now they were coming after me. We would surely be viewed as three loose cannons with axes to grind, not to be believed or trusted. I had come to terms with my eventuality with the job, but I never believed that the job would use me, a cop trying to solve another cop's murder, to cover up their own, and their predecessors' nonfeasance, along with further criminal and cowardly acts. And in doing so, they were letting a cop killer—Lewis 17X Dupree—walk free. The guilt I felt was suffocating. Dupree was getting a pass because of me.

I was cleaned up when I walked into the 2-4 that morning, beard trimmed, suit and tie. I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect. Were they going to suspend me, or had they developed enough of a case on me to actually hit me with criminal charges? I assumed they'd found out about the impending subpoenas and were preemptively setting up their own defense. I never felt so alone in all my life.