Authors: Randy Jurgensen
“It was.”
He laid both his hands on the corpse's grayish cold skin, showing where the injuries were on Phil's corresponding body. “There was bruising on the inside of both his thighs, those markings are indicative of stomping. He also sustained defensive injuries to his hands, wrists, and forearms. There was substantial bruising to his head, neck, and shoulders. Was he dragged?”
“He was pulled down a flight of stairs.”
He pulled the cap off a felt pen and drew a diagram of both entrance and exit wounds on the body. The entrance wound, dime-sized, was slightly below his midsection, closer to his back, between the sixth and seventh ribs. He drew arrows indicating the bullet's trajectory, heading down from a ten o'clock position to the left side four o'clock position, which was the bullet's exit wound, the size of a nickel. He explained that flash and powder burns on Phil's jacket indicated that the gun was fired from a distance of between four and six inches.
I followed him to a freestanding rubber dummy. He laid it on the floor. From a table loaded with props he grabbed a replica, of a police service revolver. “Don't worry, Randy, I'm an excellent shot,” he deadpanned. The gun's barrel was painted red, so I knew it was without a firing pin. Baden drew a circle where the entrance wound would be. He then knelt to the dummy's right, placing the service revolver in its hand. Extending the dummy's arm, wrist, and hand in an array of angles, he demonstrated that for Phil to have himself at that short distance, four to six inches, his arm and wrist would had to have been broken. They were not.
I was elated. This completely disproved all assertions made by Farrakhan and the job. Phil
was
murdered and not by a cop. “You know, Mike, you're gonna be called to the stand again.”
He grinned, “I can't wait.”
The mockup of the mosque was completed, and it was nothing short of amazing. Every room was recreated like a balsa wood dollhouse. Double swinging doorways, stairways, anterooms, lunchrooms, offices, prayer rooms, classrooms, even the bakery and bookstore inside the building were duplicated. Every wall, door, ceiling, and floor was painted in the exact color as the day in question. I suddenly realized why it cost so much money to make a movie. I'd use this mockup as a model for every cop involved, clarifying where they were when they first responded, and what their actions were thereafter. I'd be able to construct an exact timeline of the day with this information.
The idea was to develop a three-tier system: first tier, anyone who was inside the mosque; second tier, men who were directly outside the mosque; and third tier, men who were stationed outside the perimeter of the building behind the barricades. Phil and Vito were tier one—numbers one and two, Padilla, Negron, tier one—three and four, Rudy Andre, tier one—five, and so on. By doing this, I could justify every cop's actions. If the cops entered that building in accordance with their duty and they were acting properly and in good faith, a defense attorney couldn't say that the FOI men were acting in self-defense, trying to protect their place of worship from armed interlopers, the cops. However, once the ball was set into motion, I'd have no choice but to interview every cop that was in those first two tiers. If I missed one interview, the defense, having access to the same tapes and roll calls, could say we were trying to hide testimony.
I listened to the 911 tapes, cataloging all arrivals from the first unit responding to the last. Then I dispatched Vito to every precinct involved, where he retrieved the individual roll calls for the day. Those roll calls gave me names to go along with the sectors and foot posts I'd heard on the
tapes. I determined that sixty-seven cops made it into tiers one and two. Of these sixty-seven, only eleven of them actually made it into the building. Of these eleven men, five witnessed the beatings, four of them victims themselves—Navarra, Negron, Padilla, and Cardillo. Three other cops left the lobby immediately, rushing the wounded to the hospital, leaving three cops on the scene to detain the prisoners and secure the premises. Three cops was hardly the premeditated invasion Minister Farrakhan and his consorts were claiming.
The hard part was actually interviewing every one of these cops. What should've taken no more than two weeks went on for an exhausting four long months. The guys would come in and lose sight of the fact that I was investigating the murder, not the bosses on the scene. Some guys came in with prepared statements about the malfeasance they'd witnessed on the scene, none of which was relevant to the case. Others came in as a group, screaming over one another, swearing, vowing vengeance against the brass. As it turned out, some of them weren't even present at the mosque. The noise inside the already loud 2-8 squad was becoming unbearable.
During these frustrating interviews, I learned that a secret organization had been formed, the CCC,
Concerned Cops for Cardillo.
At their weekly meetings, cops from all over the city would bitch and moan about what happened, and what didn't happen, what they were told to do, and what they were told not to do. They couldn't let go of the betrayal. The longer the investigation went on, the more angry they became. The men were formulating their own investigation, which they believed, would help facilitate
my
investigation into the job's lack of action, which made them responsible for the riot, and for letting the guilty parties go free. Were they right? Hell, yes, they were, but it wasn't my job to prove or disprove any of that. My job was to catch a killer, and it was becoming increasingly hard to keep sight of that. I was invited to the CCC meetings, but I declined. I'm sure the cops started to view me as a Benedict Arnold, but I had to think about the case. If One PP found out I was going to some secret meetings to conspire against them, I'd be yanked off the case in no time. I think maybe some of the guys knew that and understood.
The interviews with the cops were on a fast track to nowhere. My frustration was starting to show. The moment a cop sat down at my desk, I held my hand up, closed my eyes, and said, “I'm telling you now, I don't want to hear about the brass. Just give me the answers to the questions I'm asking, nothing more, nothing less, because I have to put it on paper.”
Putting it on paper
meant it was going on a five, which would appear on court documents. Whatever these guys said was going to be picked apart by defense attorneys.
I was peeing in the wind. Everything I said just fueled their desire to not only impeach the job, but me as well. Cops started to appear with intimidating PBA delegates, who began questioning
me
. Was I also investigating the other assaults of Navarra, Padilla, and Negron? What about the other aided case cops who were injured in the ensuing riot? This role reversal was time-consuming. While I was tap dancing with these cops and their delegates, Phil's murderer roamed free. As frustrating as it was, these cops stayed their pledge to Phil; they'd never forget him. I realized that we were all reading the same book, just on different pages. That road to hell was paved with good intentions.
Till finally one day, the pointed questioning of one particular delegate hit me center mass:
“What about the other victims?”
That's when I snapped.
Everything came up on me at once. The paranoid Lieutenant Muldoon, the secret meeting with Tom in the shithouse at One PP, the alienation from my partners, the deplorable looks from other detectives, and to now be accused by the very men who allegedly “had my back.” I lost total control, slamming my hand on the desk over and over. I stood up, pointing at both delegate and cop. “The balls of you two to come in here, on my and Phil's dime, with your smug attitudes and accusatory questions. I myself was a victim. Did you two forget that? Who's investigating my assault? Do I give a fuck?”
We were at a tour change, so the squad room was top heavy with overlapping detectives signing in and out. The cells were filled to capacity with prisoners. There were other cops seated, waiting to be interviewed. Typing stopped, conversations were halted, interviews suddenly broke off, a cricket chirped somewhere. It was dead silent as I walked over to the waiting cops, my feet hitting the floor, sounding like explosions. I stood in front of the uniforms; the words just tumbled out, “I'm telling you guys for the last fucking time, I don't give a fuck about the brass.”
A grizzled hairbag of a uniform stood up, “What, did you forget what this was all about? You were at the grave site, Jurgensen. You heard what was said. We ain't forgettin'. What, did you all of a sudden forget about Phil?”
My faced flushed. I felt both hands ball into fists. Thankfully, Bart Gorman appeared in front of me, placing both his hands on my shoulders.
He calmly said, “Randy, I'm gonna talk to the guys. Get yourself a cup of coffee.”
I was keenly aware that every cop, DT, and boss had eyes on me. Slugging this cement-headed cop would only make me more of an outsider. I shook my head in disbelief and walked the fuck out.
I needed to get outside, away from the blue brethren. I walked toward 125th Street. Harlem always had a soothing effect on me, but today, nothing. And that's when I heard him calling my name. I turned. It was Vito.
He jogged to me, though I kept walking, determined to get as far away from the precinct as possible. He caught up, falling in step with me. He didn't say anything. I wanted to blame somebody, and he was the perfect blue target. He represented them, the cops.
G'head, Vito, say something. Defend them. I fucking dare you.
I wanted to say this but my jaw was clenched shut.
We must've walked three long blocks when he finally broke the silence. Completely out of breath he said, “You know, Randy, your legs are longer than mine. You mind slowing down a bit?”
I looked at him. The angry bubble I was in suddenly burst. I slowed. My breathing leveled off. I stopped, resting on a parked car. He placed both his hands on the hood, catching his breath.
He looked up at me, face flush and sweaty. “Gotta stop smoking.”
We both laughed and continued laughing. It made me realize I had walked out on him. And he had walked out on all of them, so he could walk with me, his partner. Vito, in my eyes, was no longer the victim. He personified what this investigation was all about, taking care of each other. On that day, Vito Navarra became my partner, and I was damn proud of it.
The nuclear cloud from the explosion didn't take long to reach me. One day to be exact. I was ten-two to the 2-5, forthwith. That meant Lieutenant Muldoon wanted to see me immediately; do not pass go. I did as requested.
He was in his usual position, facing the wall, when I entered his office. He quickly spun in his chair, looking directly at me, not a good sign. He shot out of the chair, closing the door to the office. He screamed, “You got cops coming to the 2-8 from all over the city? I told you, you need to interview somebody, the request comes from me. Now I am goddamn tired of your insubordination. That's two times you disobeyed a direct order, and guess what, it ain't gonna happen again. You wanna know why? Because you are now reporting here, to this office. You and your
partner are working out of the 2-8 no longer, and I don't give an infinitesimal fuck who you got making the next phone call for you, because trust me, Jurgensen, my dick is bigger than yours. From now on, you talk to a cop, I'll get him here. If he needs a tour change, it comes from here. You're down to your last out. You following me?”
The purple vein pulsing on his forehead and the very fact that his eyes hadn't moved from mine throughout his entire rant told me to tail the fuck down. I nodded, “Yes, Sir. I'll let you make the phone notifications.”
“No, no, no, you got it wrong.
You
aren't letting
me
do shit. I'm the fucking landlord; you're the tenant, and don't you ever forget it.” With that, he tapped his glasses back up his nose.
“Anything else, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, there is. What was that little statement you made, that you don't give a fuck about the brass? What did you mean by that? You got some wild hair up your ass? You gonna start questioning superior officers?”
Though he'd taken what I said completely out of context, I did feel a flush of embarrassment. “No, Sir, that's not what I meant. What I said was that I didn't want to hear anything about the brass from the cops. All I wanted them to tell me was what their actions were on the day of occurrence. None of that stuff about the bosses was pertinent to the case, that's why I said that.”
I knew he was jacked into the 2-8. How else could he know about the statement? I thought the worst of it was over, but that's when he hit me with his bombshell. “I don't know what the hell you're doing, but I do know that you're collecting enemies by the second. Why in the fuck is the Cardillo family saying to the DA's office that we're whitewashing the investigation of the superior officers?”
I didn't think it was humanly possible for him to get louder. “What investigation of the superior officers?”
I was momentarily stunned. Someone influential had the Cardillos' ear, and it had to be a pissed-off cop. “Sir, I know nothing of that. Trust me, there is no investigation of any superior officer, because a superior officer did not shoot Phil. I'll call Van Lindt and straighten this out.”
He turned from me, sitting at his desk. “Is there anything else, Sir?”
He lifted his hand up as if he were shooing away a butterfly. I turned and was happy to walk out, barely in one piece.
Vito lingered nervously by a water cooler. He'd heard the screaming. I tilted my head at him to follow me. When we were out of earshot on the
stairway, I asked, “You ever make any of those CCC meetings?”
“Absolutely not, Randy. Yeah, I been asked to go, but that's the last place I wanna find myself. This whole thing is hard enough, you know what I'm saying?”
“Okay, what about the Cardillos? You saying anything to them about the case?”
“No, Randy, I haven't spoken to the family since the funeral.”
“Well someone is giving them the wrong information, and it is only going to fuck us up in the long run. Don't say anything to anyone about the case. Maybe we're better off being out of the 2-8.”