New York Chief of Detectives (2 page)

Pat walked out of his high rise condo just as Dickie Davis rounded the corner in the big, black, Chrysler 300.  Pat sat down in the passenger seat.

“Light her up Dickie, let’s roll.”

Dickie hit the emergency lights and siren as they plowed through the army of yellow cabs and buses in the busy, Manhattan traffic. Even after nearly 30 years on the job, Pat O’Connor still felt the same adrenaline rush that he had felt as a rookie when they were running lights and siren.

It took about 20 minutes, running emergency with lights and siren, to get to the Corona neighborhood of Queens, where the crime scene was located. There were dozens of NYPD cars on the scene with their lights flashing. There was also a command bus parked on the scene, which pleased Pat O’Connor. He hated being briefed in public, where nosey reporters could eavesdrop and get far too much information.

Pat got out of the Chrysler. With his six-foot stocky frame, he was an imposing figure. He stuck his shield in his breast pocket. The fancy gold shield was topped with three stars and lettered; “City of New York Police, Chief of Detectives.”  When Pat O’Connor arrived on the scene, there was no doubt that he was in charge. He noted that most of the brass from One Police Plaza had not arrived yet, probably because it was Saturday. One Police Plaza was the address of NYPD headquarters in lower Manhattan and was universally referred to by cops as “One PP.”  Pat wanted to get quickly up to speed before this turned into a circus. Even well-meaning bosses sometimes got in the way. Pat knew that his role was not about politics, but making sure this case was solved.

Pat was approached by Lieutenant Stanton.

“Good morning, Chief. I understand you knew this guy.”

“I sure did. He reached out to me when I was still trying to play music for a living and encouraged me to come on the job.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks, J.J. Let’s round up the guys. I need you to get me up to speed before the pencil pushers from One PP get here.”

Pat settled into his familiar turf inside the NYPD Mobile Command Center. A patrolman working inside immediately responded.

“Good morning, Chief.  I’ve got the coffee brewing.”

“Thanks, you’re a good man.”

With about a dozen people inside, Lieutenant Stanton began the briefing.

“At approximately 0830 hours this morning, RMP 107 David responded to a ‘man-down’ call in this vacant lot, and discovered a male subject DOA.  CSU started working the scene and discovered our victim was ‘on the job.’”

“How did he die, Lou?” Pat asked.

“I’m not exactly sure. The M.E. saw a little blood on the back of his neck and he had a busted lip. I think we will have to wait until autopsy to find out for sure, Chief. There are no gunshot wounds or anything obvious.”

“Okay, J.J., what do we have so far?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. We’ve done some preliminary canvassing, but are empty handed so far. I’ve reached out to OCCB to try to find out what he was working on.”

“Okay let’s make sure that CSU does a full court press on this one. No short-cuts on anything. I know it’s a dusty lot, but I don’t want one speck of dust lost that could help us.”

“Absolutely, Chief. We’ll make it happen.”

“Thanks, J. J. and also, let’s get some tech guys out here. Locate any commercial surveillance cameras within a hundred miles of here and check them out. If they raise hell about letting us view them, get a court order.”

“I’ll get someone on it immediately.”

Pat could see the army of media trucks starting to assemble outside the restricted area of the crime scene. He knew that it was only going to get worse. He wanted very little released, because he trusted only a few people to handle it. He decided that in this case, he could only trust one, himself.

“Guys, this will be a tough case. We’ll be running it out of the Chief of D’s office. I want the detective team that caught this case and Lieutenant Stanton to remain. No media statements should be made without my authorization. Let’s be sure we look under the little rocks under the rocks on this one. Canvass the entire neighborhood, guys. Let’s get to work.”

Everyone left the command post except for Pat O’Connor, J. J. Stanton, Mike Logan, and Mary McDonald.

“J.J., since your guys caught the case; I want them to stay on it, but report to my office. I’ll assign a boss out of my command to run it. No offense, but this case will be bigger than can be handled at the precinct level. “

“I agree, Chief.  We have more than enough on our plates already to keep us busy.”

“I’ll make sure Mike and Mary keep you in the loop.”

After making these assignments, Pat was informed that Tony Rodriguez’s wife, Caroline had been notified of his death by the OCCB command. He felt such emptiness thinking about it. Pat O’Connor decided it was time to feed the media vultures. They were always looking for a feast, but this time they were going to get only a few crumbs.

“Good afternoon, I am Patrick O’Connor, Chief of Detectives. At approximately 0830 hours this morning, a body was found in the vacant lot behind us. The victim has been identified as Detective Anthony P. Rodriguez of the New York City Police Department. His body will be autopsied by the medical examiner’s office, and we may be able to release more information at a later time. We’re collecting forensic evidence and pursuing the leads we have developed so far. I’m sorry, but I will not be taking questions. There’ll be a press conference at 1000 hours tomorrow at One Police Plaza in the media room. Thank you for your cooperation and assistance.” 

With a barrage of questions being asked, Pat turned and walked away, knowing he had told them absolutely nothing of value.

CHAPTER 4

Saturday, April 3-Day 2

3312 Plaza Terrace

Borough of Queens, New York

1115 Hours

Robert
Earl Longstreet had been the Commissioner of the New York City Police Department for just under two years. Prior to that, he had been a prosecutor in Manhattan and a former NYPD Lieutenant. Pat O’Connor had a good relationship with the commissioner, but occasionally, he had to dodge a few political storms. Pat refused to play the political games and often reminded Commissioner Longstreet that it was always politically correct to solve cases and lock up perps.

Pat saw the commissioner’s car pull up to the crime scene and instinctively walked over and met him.

“What’ve we got, Patty? I heard on the news that you were pursuing leads, so that’s good.”

“So far we’re not pursuing squat. I said that, so the guy that did this will get nervous and screw up. I want him to think we’re close.”

“Do we know what Rodriguez was investigating?”

“No, but we’re going to find out. I knew this guy, and he was a stand up detective, a good cop.”  

“Okay, my friend, you run it, and I’ll handle city hall.”

The commissioner spoke briefly to a few other command officers and left the scene.

Dickie Davis approached Pat.  “Ray Capese is trying to reach you, Chief. He’s called several times.”

“Thanks, I’ll call him.”

Raymond Capese was the three star chief in charge of the Organized Crime Control Bureau. As a former marine, Ray still wore his hair in a crew cut and had the callous outward demeanor of a rugged marine.  The NYPD Organized Crime Control Bureau is charged with investigating traditional organized crime, as well as gangs, gun trafficking and narcotics. The mafia had been all but crippled by the FBI and the NYPD. There were a few leftover wannabes, but the new gangs and drug traffickers were far more menacing.

Pat dialed Ray Capese from inside his car.

“Hey, Ray, it’s Pat O’Connor.  How is Caroline Rodriguez handling this?”

“Like a true cop’s wife, she’s being very strong and brave. They had no kids, so she’ll be alone in this big city. I don’t think she has any other family here.”

“I’ll try to check by tonight.”

“That would be great, Pat. I’m sure it would mean a lot to her.”

“Ray, I know my guys have reached out, but do we have any idea what Tony was working on last night?”

“Not really, he had finished the trial of the Banditos brothers for gun trafficking. It was a case he turned over to ATF. It ended up being a plea, with most of them facing deportation after serving some fed time.”

“We’ll need access to all his files. Can we lock down his desk?”

“Sure. Consider it done.” 

“Also, we’ll want to interview his squad. We have zilch on this one.”

“We’ll do anything to help, Pat. I appreciate you getting back to me.” 

Pat dropped the cell phone back in his pocket. He knew he could trust Ray Capese.

As soon as he took his hand off the phone, Pat felt it vibrate again. He looked at it, and saw that the caller ID said “Private.” Most of the NYPD had their numbers blocked to keep complainants and reporters from getting their cell phone numbers. Pat answered the phone.

“Pat O’Connor.”

“Hi, Pat, this is Harry Doogin. I know you are all over this Rodriguez thing, but I’m sending an IAB team out to see what this guy was into. I mean, you never know.”

“At this point, Harry, they’ll be twiddling their thumbs, because there’s not much yet to go on.  I know you have to do this, but tread lightly until we can get our arms around this thing.”

“Well, we’ll see about that, but I wanted to give you a courtesy call.”

“Thanks for your thoughtfulness. Good-bye.”

Pat detested Harry Doogin. He thought Harry was a vulture, who would take something bad and make it worse.  He was Chief of the Internal Affairs Bureau. He was a career IAB guy who had spent most of his career in the “rat squad,” busting cops. Getting on old Harry’s famous ‘shit’ list was equivalent to committing career suicide. When a cop was on the list, absolutely everything he did was scrutinized under the IAB microscope.  It was a necessary job, but with over 40 years on the job, “Harry the Hatchet,” as he was known, enjoyed it too much.

CHAPTER 5

Saturday April 3-Day 2

Chief of Detectives’ Office-One Police Plaza

Borough of Manhattan, New York

1400 hours

Dickie
Davis drove Pat O’Connor back to his office at One Police Plaza. He pulled the Chrysler into the underground parking space marked; “Reserved Chief of Detectives.” They caught the elevator up to the eleventh floor and entered the suite of offices labeled; “Office of the Chief of Detectives.”

“I need time to sort out things and get ready for some busy days, Dickie.  We need to put a crew together by tomorrow morning to build a short term task force.”  

“Okay, Chief, I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

Pat walked into his spacious office and dropped his radio in the desk charger. Pat was a guy who liked to know what was going on. He almost always had his radio scanning the detective and city-wide channels. He kept the volume low, but was still able to hear what was going on.

Pat wanted someone he trusted to spearhead this task force. He needed someone with the skills and horsepower to get the job done in a high profile case like this one. He had just the person in mind: Captain Bryan Flannery, who was the Commanding Officer of the Manhattan North Homicide Task Force.  With a Master’s Degree in business, he was an extremely well-educated, bright and street-savvy African American.  He was 6’3” and in top shape, with a businesslike attitude. He would take no crap from anyone.

Pat brewed some fresh coffee, and tried to select as many of the task force members as he could.  His phone rang.

“Pat O’Connor.”

“Hello, Chief, it’s Angie.  I’m almost at One PP.  Do you need anything?”

“No, just come to my office.”

“Will do, ten minutes tops.”

“See you then.” 

Lieutenant Angela Wilson was the executive assistant to the Chief of Detectives. She had a law degree and even taught criminal justice classes at John Jay College. She was extremely efficient and understood maneuvering through the NYPD bureaucracy as well as anyone. She was an attractive petite blond, with a fiery New York disposition, who was married to a senior New York FBI Agent.  Sometimes that helped in the Detective Bureau, when you needed to cut through federal red tape.

There was a knock on the door, and Pat said; “Come In.”

It was Angie Wilson.

“Afternoon, Chief. I know you said you didn’t need anything, but I brought you a steak and cheese anyway.”

“Thanks, let me give you some money.”

“Forget about it, I got it ‘on the arm.’  The guy knew I was on the job and wouldn’t let me pay. He’d heard on the news about Tony Rodriguez.”

“You better hope ‘Harry the Hatchet’ doesn’t find out about this gratuity.”

“Well, it does have cheese on it, and you know how a rat like old Harry loves cheese.”