Reflections from the Shield: Volume Iii
The Final Years

By Wayne V. Beyea

Emotionally evocative, Reflections From The Shield is an exciting portrayal of the author's career in a family known as the New York State Police. A 25 year labor of love and personal sacrifice.

Reflections From The Shield is a unique true life, entertaining adventure story that inspires laughter and tears. A life story so exciting it had to be told. Readers are treated to horrific crime stories, while at the same time provided insight and education into the workings of the criminal justice system in New York State.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469786520

Wayne V. Beyea

The author completed a 25-year career in the New York State Police as Trooper, Investigator and Senior Investigator. He supervised a very busy detective unit located in the Hudson Valley for 9years and was specially trained in hostage negotiation and suicide intervention. He supervised design of NYSP hostage negotiation training program and "First Officer Response to High Crisis Incident program." In retirement he is a freelance writer and author of three books.

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Reflections From The Shield

Volume III The Final Years

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Wayne E. Beyea

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Chapter 1 Ellenville

Chapter 2 Your Men Threw Our Son Off That Bridge

Chapter 3 Dishonest Police Officer

Chapter 4 Eastern Correctional Facility

Chapter 5 Homicide In Prison

Chapter 6 Prison Strike

Chapter 7 A Moonie Is Kidnapped

Chapter 8 Transferred To Kingston

Chapter 9 Kelly

Chapter 10 I Don’t Do Dogs

Chapter 11 Fatal Plane Crash

Chapter 12 Saved By A Priest

Chapter 13 George The Pedophile

Chapter 14 Armed & Dangerous Student

Chapter 15 Lieutenant Dead Eye Dick

Chapter 16 Road Rage

Chapter 17 Bob Harjes & The Hurley Mountain Inn

Chapter 18 Lenny Kasson

Chapter 19 Baby In The Clothes Dryer

Chapter 20 Right Place At The Right Time

Chapter 21 Murder At Spring Lake

Chapter 22 Carol Bosch

Chapter 23 He Didn’t Want To Get Blood In His Car

Chapter 24 Murder At Cooper Lake

Chapter 25 The Media

Chapter 26 Murder Of Informants

Chapter 27 Hostage Incident In Athens

Chapter 28 House Held Hostage

Chapter 29 Academy Assignment

Chapter 30 Sports Injury

Chapter 31 Training Hostage Negotiators

Chapter 32 Mock Hostage Incident At IBM

Chapter 33 Close Call

Chapter 34 Women In The State Police

Chapter 35 Trooper Colleen O’Neill

Chapter 36 Extortion

Chapter 37 When Homicide Isn’t A Homicide

Chapter 38 The Police Chief Was A Rapist

Chapter 39 Willy The Weasel

Chapter 40 The Eng Kidnapping

Chapter 41 Investigator Richard Snyder

In Memory of Lenny Kasson

Surely God enjoys the company of this good-hearted, enigmatic hero.

Acknowledgements

To Kathy, Patrick, Mary, Nannette, Eric and Kelly, contributors to many fine memories, much love, and who continue to lend support to dad’s third—or is it fourth—career.

Many individuals contributed to the true incidents portrayed in this book.

Although each and every episode is true to the best of author’s memory, many names and places have been changed to protect the innocent and, not so innocent.

My thanks to the family of New York State Police many, of whom, aided and abetted the author in the commission of events that created so many pleasant memories. A great number of these accomplices make appearances in the true episodes portrayed between these covers. To my former colleagues who are not featured, I offer my profound apology. It simply wasn’t possible to remember everything that occurred during a span of 25 years.

Special thanks to retired FBI S/A Tom Davidheiser, who contributed information that aided my reflection on the past.

Special thanks must also go to Elizabeth Ewald, who graciously took time from her demanding career to clean up my text.

Volume III

The Final Years

Preface

After venturing onto the literary scene with the crime fiction novel Fatal Impeachment, friends who enjoyed the book encouraged me to pen my memoirs from my career as a member of the New York State Police.

At first I rejected the idea thinking, There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of police officers who experienced far more exciting careers and made their story available to the reading public. During my 25 year career, I managed to avoid getting shot or seriously injured, and thankfully, did not shoot anyone. Surely, my story wouldn’t make for interesting reading. However, as folks continued encouragement, I gave further thought to the project and decided to tell my story in a manner that would put the reader in emotional touch with the persons and events portrayed. I hoped to accomplish that by providing the body language spoken by the individuals and recreating dialogue as accurately as memory would permit.

Many of my experiences were challenging, unusual, exciting, humorous, embarrassing, rewarding or frustrating, and I would enjoy telling and preserving them. While at it, I could provide a historical portrayal of the New York State Police during the 1962–87 era.

The entire undertaking would exceed one thousand pages, and so the decision was made to complete the work in volumes. Volume I details my years as a uniform trooper. Volume II details my years as an investigator in the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Volume III portrays my final years as a BCI supervisor.

The end result depicts the author’s quarter century love-hate relationship with the New York State Police. It is my hope that the reader will enjoy reading my story as much as I enjoyed living it.

1

Ellenville

"Your men threw our son off that bridge!"

This complaint from the distraught and angry parents of a young man who had committed suicide by leaping off Dry Gulch Bridge during the previous night—made, on my first day as supervisor of the Ellenville BCI—would set the tone for my challenging tenure as a Senior Investigator in the New York State Police.

My dream of becoming a Senior Investigator in the New York State Police came true on December 21, 1978. The promotion required my transfer to the Ellenville sub-station located only 28 miles south of Kingston. Twenty-eight miles does not sound like a long commute however via busy route 209, which meandered through the Shawangunk Valley—located on the eastern edge of the Catskill Mountains—it was an hour drive.

A hold over from another era, the Ellenville barracks was a two-story wood frame construction home converted to commercial use. The uniform force, supervised by two sergeants, utilized the first floor, and what once were bedrooms on the second floor had been converted into offices for the BCI.

Although referred to as SP Ellenville, the whitewashed exterior building—fronting on route 209—was actually located in the hamlet of Wawarsing, about one mile north of Ellenville and, about one half mile north of Eastern State Correction facility.

When I learned that I would be supervising the Ellenville BCI unit, I was elated because the personnel working there policed a very challenging area and enjoyed an excellent reputation for hard work and devotion to duty.

On arrival for my first tour of duty at Ellenville, I stood for a moment and studied the venerable old structure where so many fine brothers had made their mark. I thought, It is not a very attractive building. If not for the sign identifying it as a state police station, a passing motorist would likely believe it was just a run down residence in need of repair. A couple of years subsequent to my departure, the troops would move into a new elegant, sandstone block structure several miles up the road. Although located near the Village of Accord and several miles north of Ellenville, this new facility would continue to be called SP Ellenville.

The day shift for the uniform force started at 7 a.m. and for BCI at 8; therefore, when I entered the station, Sergeant Joe Ellsworth was the only uniform member present to greet me. A tall, handsome man, with a fine physique maintained by a dedicated exercise regimen, Joe cut a fine figure in the gray uniform of the state police. His physical appearance combined with the sergeant stripes on both sleeves of a neatly ironed uniform shirt gave him a commanding presence and indeed he was. Joe was supervisor of the station’s uniform force, assisted in his administrative duties by Sergeant Brian Van Houten.

Appearances aside, Joe’s sincere warm smile and gregarious personality revealed that he was a gentle giant. Joe extended his hand to welcome me, and my handshake made an immediate positive impression on him. Wow! he responded. I know by your powerful grip that we are going to get along fine.

I smiled, spread my hands wide and replied, These mitts are the result of a youth spent milking cows and cutting wood with crosscut, bucksaw and axe.

Joe laughed and responded, It is rumored that you were a boxer, too.

His statement caused me to laugh and I explained, Only for a brief spell while I was in the Navy. I was strong enough and in good condition, but wasn’t much of a fighter. I lacked the killer instinct needed to put my opponents away. When I started to hurt them, I eased up and they bounced back to clean my clock.

Joe smiled at my explanation, then gave me a swelled head by stating, Well, you come here with the excellent reputation of being a strong, tenacious investigator and I am pleased that you are here.

His words forced another smile and I responded, Thanks Joe. I am happy to be here.

You’re quite welcome, he replied. Anything you would like to know about the Ellenville station before you go upstairs to meet your motley crew?

Yes, I answered in a voice of concern, the most important question of all. Where is the station coffee mess?

This evoked a hearty laugh from the good-humored sergeant who pointed up the stairs and said, The BCI have their own.

Thanks, Joe, I replied and as I started up the stairs added, I hope my first day here will be a quiet, uneventful one.

Joe laughed once again and as I continued up the stairs I heard him respond, That is not likely.

The motley crew Joe was referring to was already at their desks when I arrived on what was wryly referred to as the BCI mezzanine. Investigators Ron Killer Keillor, Walter Wally Hubert, Douglas Dougie Dymond, William O.B. O’Brien, Robert Gulpin Gilpin and Bill Woody Woods, greeted me warmly and welcomed me to Snot Valley.

According to retired Investigator Jack Ostmark, the valley was dubbed with this derogatory name after Investigator Dick O’Hara—who hailed from Oneonta and served a stint of duty at Ellenville in the 70s—offered the analogy that every time he entered the Shawangunk Valley after being home on pass, it felt like he was entering a valley of snot.

The office of my predecessor was located immediately on the right at the top of the stairs and upon seeing it, I was immediately elated to see that the BCI coffee mess was in this room. I would not have to leave my office to engage in one of my favorite vices. Someone in the squad had brewed a fresh pot in anticipation of my arrival and after pouring my treasured mug (graced with Renoir’s painting Luncheon of the Boating Party), full of strong, black Joe, I held my initial briefing with my squad. I had previously met these brothers before my promotion to supervisor, and knew them to be a dedicated hard working crew who took pride in solving crime. Before providing reflection on that initial briefing, I will digress for a moment to provide a thumbnail sketch of the area to those readers who may be unfamiliar with it.

Geographically located in the Shawangunk Valley, Ellenville troopers were responsible for policing the southwestern portion of Ulster County, which was generally rural except for a sprinkling of resort hotels mostly owned by Orthodox Jews. The hotels offered exquisite Jewish cuisine, attracted hordes of wealthy guests (mostly from New York City), and hired numerous unsavory characters—including illegal aliens as chambermaids, bellhops, kitchen help and busboys at minimum or below minimum wages.

The mergence of opulence with poverty created an environment ripe for crime. Also, the diverse racial and cultural mix of rural white rednecks, cosmopolitan Jewry, African Americans and Hispanics, created a unique challenge for law enforcement. As can be imagined, the hotels required a lot of police service and relied on the state police to provide that service for them. In return, we were happy to provide that service and it would be hypocritical of me to say that our being treated like distinguished guests had nothing to do with that motivation.

Eastern State Correctional Facility, located just a hop, skip and jump from the Ellenville barracks, also kept the Ellenville BCI unit busy with criminal work and this reflection causes me to expound on a phenomena ignored by most criminologists and sociologists. Most of the convicted felons incarcerated at Eastern Correction were from the New York City area. After getting tired of making the long trek upstate to visit their loved one, many inmate visitors decided to move to the area so visitations would be easier and less expensive. As most of these transplants were on welfare and supplemented their income by committing crime, they became a burden on Ulster County taxpayers and a problem for police.

Having described the Ellenville area from an admitted perspective of police bias, I now return to my meeting with investigators on my initial day at work in Snot Valley.

2

Your Men Threw Our Son Off That Bridge

Investigator Dymond provided me a synopsis of the previous night’s activities. His report went something like this:

At about one last night, our night patrol spotted an apparent intoxicated driver on Route 52 west of the Village of Ellenville. The plate number on the car came back registered to Jeremy Oates, a suspected drug dealer and frequent traffic violator. They attempted to stop the driver but he would not stop, and tried to elude them by turning onto numerous side roads. The pursuit covered several miles and eventually, Ellenville PD cars and Sheriffs cars joined our night patrol in the chase. Finally the violator returned to route 52 and started up the mountain east of the village. About one third of the way up the mountain, he suddenly stopped in the middle of Dry Gulch Creek Bridge, got out of his car and jumped over the bridge rail. He was going over the rail as our guys came to a stop. It is about 160 feet straight down to rocks below, and his body was smashed up pretty bad. The fire department and an ambulance were called out but they couldn’t do anything, since he was obviously dead. Troops called me out and I met the coroner at the scene. I have had several dealings with Jeremy Oates and knew him well but he was busted up so badly I wasn’t able to make positive identification until I examined him closely in the morgue. Why he jumped to his death will probably remain a mystery but knowing Jeremy, I am reasonably certain he was stoned and probably thought he could fly. Hopefully, toxicology examination results would reveal what drug or drugs were in his system. Six police officers saw Jeremy jump over the bridge rail and based on their observations, the coroner rendered a verdict of suicide.

Doug had provided a good summary of the case and the only question I had for him was, Were the victim’s next of kin notified?

Yes, he answered, Jeremy’s parents were notified and went up to Kingston Hospital to ID their son’s body.

Before concluding my very first briefing session with my squad, I commented on the monthly troop report of BCI cases. At the time, troop F headquarters issued a monthly statistical report concerning all cases adopted by investigators in the troop. The most important category on this report was titled Cases closed by arrest percentage. The report was intended to create competition among stations and inspire investigators to work more diligently. The Ellenville BCI squad’s number of cases closed by arrest consistently exceeded 90% and led the troop in this regard. I commended the group for their outstanding performance and told them how happy I was to be given the privilege of being their supervisor. You guys obviously know what you are doing and need little supervision. All I ask is that you continue doing whatever you are doing now that is working. I added the caveat, Just be sure you act within the scope of the law while you are doing it. I provided this admonishment because the Ulster County District Attorney had voiced his concern to me that the Ellenville BCI squad had a reputation for heavy handedness and he would not hesitate to prosecute any police officer using physical force or duress with suspects. In telling me this, the DA offered no evidence or proof of any specific misbehavior, only indicating that he had received unsubstantiated complaints from defense attorneys and was passing his concern on to me. I told the DA that I would give his message to my squad and assured him that the investigators at Ellenville were dedicated police professionals who would not jeopardize their careers just to make an arrest. I am happy to report that during my nine months as supervisor of the Ellenville BCI, the investigators working with me proved to be absolute police professionals, well respected by the public, their peers, our supervisors and prosecutors.

Having concluded my first briefing with the squad, I refilled my coffee mug and started settling my office. Less than five minutes into the process of deciding how I wanted my desk positioned, where to place possessions, etc., Sergeant Ellsworth called my telephone extension to inform me, Mr. and Mrs. Oates—parents of last night’s suicide victim are here and want to speak with you. Not knowing what to expect, I proceeded down the stairs to meet them.

Under better circumstances, Harold and Elizabeth Oates could be described as an attractive couple probably in their early to mid forties. I extended my hand to Harold but he did not accept or acknowledge it. On the way down the stairs from my office, I had anticipated the couple would be sad and confused over the death of their son but anger appeared to be the strongest emotion displayed on their faces. I gave the couple a compassionate look and said, I’m sorry that you have lost your son. What is it you wish to speak with me about?

Harold Oates responded in a voice strained by anger. Your men threw our son off that bridge! Accusation having been made, he paused to see my reaction but I remained silent and waited for him to continue. Receiving no expected response, Harold continued, I understand you are the supervisor here and I-we, demand an investigation! We want the officers responsible arrested for murdering our son!

Please come up to my office and we will discuss this, I quietly replied, hoping that my look did not reveal the dread I felt in having to deal with their confusion, pain and anger.

The couple followed me up the stairs. After they were seated in my office, I offered them both coffee, and they refused. Not a large man, Harold folded his arms across his chest in a defensive posture, while Mrs. Oates, nervously scratched at the end of her chair’s arm rests. They sat stoically staring at me with looks of pain and anger but managed to keep their hostile emotions in check as we commenced a quiet and subdued conversation.

I sat in my desk chair for the first time, faced the angry couple and asked, I realize that your son’s death must be very painful, but what makes you believe the police are responsible?

Because Jeremy was constantly being hassled by all the cops in this valley! Harold angrily answered, once again hesitating before continuing, waiting to see my reaction to his accusation.

I thought it would be best to let him vent and did not respond while at the same time showing interest in what he had to say.

When I didn’t respond he continued, From the time Jeremy got his driver’s license, the police started harassing him. They pulled him over on the road for no reason and accused him of committing every crime that occurred in this town. He couldn’t drive down the road without getting stopped and given a ticket for something. They accused him of selling drugs and called him all sort of vile names. We are sure the cops were picking on Jeremy because he was a free spirit, smoked a little pot and wasn’t afraid to call cops pigs to their face. He may have broken a few laws and sometimes behaved strangely, but he was just being a typical rebellious teenager. Jeremy had no reason to want to take his life and would not have jumped off that bridge. We are certain that he was executed by the police and we demand that you force the truth from them and arrest our son’s killers.

Having ventilated, Harold studied me with an angry look, which indicated to me that he expected me to speak in defense of the police officers but I would disappoint him in that regard.

I had been studying the couple since first meeting them, and it struck me as odd that although both exhibited anger and frustration, they did not display sadness and neither of them shed a tear while talking about their son. I thought, "It would seem that so few hours after their son’s body was broken on the rocks of a dry stream bed, the parents would be seeking solace from family, friends or perhaps a religious advisor. What made them come here after viewing their son’s body? Could it be that a personal sense of guilt in knowing that a lack of parenting was responsible for their son’s death? Was this what motivated them to blame the

police—transference of guilt to relieve their conscience? Are they blaming Jeremy’s death on the police to be absolved of responsibility themselves?" It seemed clear to me that whether or not I refused to conduct an investigation or assured that one would be conducted, was of no consequence to them. Either decision would add credibility to a claim of cover up and relieve them of personal guilt. I was a police officer, not a psychologist, and I would not pretend to be one. My response did not give them the absolution they were seeking nor fuel any rumor of a cover up of police misconduct. I responded, Mr. & Mrs. Oates, you have just suffered a great loss and I wish I could have been on that bridge to try to prevent what happened, but I wasn’t. Six police officers from three separate police agencies have testified that Jeremy jumped off the bridge. Why he did may never be known. I can understand how confusing it must be to you and, if Jeremy had been my son, I would also want answers as to why. There is nothing that I can say that will take your pain away and as I am also a police officer, you would likely distrust the thoroughness of any investigation I might conduct concerning Jeremy’s death. Therefore, I would suggest that you voice your concern to the Ulster County District Attorney. He is the chief law enforcement officer in the county and owes no allegiance to any police agency. If he decides an investigation is warranted, I will gladly provide whatever assistance he requests. Before escorting the troubled couple to the door, I wrote the address and telephone number of the district attorney’s office on one of my business cards and gave it to Harold.

I anticipated that the Oates would complain to the District Attorney and therefore after they departed the station, I called District Attorney Mike Kavanagh and informed him of the circumstances. About a month later, I was seated in Mike’s office discussing a matter under prosecution and asked him if the Oates had filed a complaint with his office.

No, Wayne, he answered, I guess they thought it over and realized the police were not responsible for their son’s death.

I did not see the Oates or hear from them again but their appearance on my first day as supervisor of the Ellenville BCI, to file such a serious charge, set the tone for an often challenging nine month tour of duty as supervisor of the Ellenville BCI.

My tour of duty in Ellenville—although challenging, was quite rewarding and I was fortunate to work with a team of excellent police detectives. A short time after taking the reins of the Ellenville BCI, Investigator Bob Gilpin retired and Investigator Bill Woods transferred to be closer to his home; they were replaced by newly appointed Investigators Robert Bob Dibble, and Garfield Garf Clark. Both had excellent reputations as hard working troopers. They made the transition to the BCI easily, and were immediately accepted into our close-knit family of police detectives.

3

Dishonest Police Officer

It seemed that every crime referred to our BCI unit was solved by the hard work and perseverance of six men who truly loved their profession, worked together as a team and took joy in cracking cases. At the conclusion of my second month as supervisor, the troop monthly report of BCI cases reflected that the Ellenville BCI unit led the troop with an astounding 100% closure of cases by arrest! This was a first in the history of the troop and although some of my peers scoffed at the accuracy and veracity of the report, I can attest that it was accurate and due strictly to the combined efforts of six devoted police professionals.

I have described the geographic and cultural makeup of SP Ellenville’s patrol venue and during my short tenure there, our BCI unit was involved in several investigations of interest worthy of inclusion in these memoirs.

One complex case involved the report that a lieutenant in the Ellenville police department was guilty of arson, grand larceny, and fraud in filing an insurance claim. The allegation was that the lieutenant, who owned several rental properties, had torched one of the properties—which he had over insured—then filed a claim with his insurance company to make a substantial profit. The information came to the attention of our BCI unit when an individual convicted on an unrelated felony, sought to reduce his sentence by turning in the police lieutenant for having hired him to torch the property. Examination of the property described by the informant revealed it had been totally destroyed by fire, resulting in the lieutenant collecting a substantial sum of money from the insurance company. Having the information was one thing but we knew that gathering sufficient evidence to prosecute and convict a veteran police officer would be difficult. I trusted the direction the investigation would take to my experienced team of professionals because they knew the suspect—knew his haunts and knew the area. They cleverly decided to wire the informant for sound, have him contact the suspect and inform him that the state police were putting pressure on him to confess having set the fire.

The squad commenced surveillance of the lieutenant’s home and business, and recorded several telephone conversations between him and our informant. One of those meetings involved the lieutenant taking the wired-for-sound informant to meet with his attorney for advice. During that conversation, it became apparent that the attorney knew the fire was arson, committed so the lieutenant would profit from the insurance company. Possessing that knowledge, he represented the lieutenant in his claim against the insurance company, and received a handsome sum for this representation. It appeared obvious to us that the attorney knowingly profited from criminal conduct, and aided and abetted the commission of grand larceny.

The Ulster County District Attorney was provided the evidence consisting of informant information, corroborated by lawful recording of intercepted conversations, proof that the fire had occurred, documentation of insurance settlement and advised that he would seek to indict and convict the police lieutenant. However, we were disappointed to learn that the intercepted and recorded conversation between the suspect’s attorney, his client and the informant were inadmissible, due to attorney-client privilege. I failed to comprehend how unsolicited and unanticipated admissions of criminal liability by a crooked attorney could be construed as privileged, and vociferously argued my case to no avail.

Countless hours of around the clock surveillance and investigation by a team of determined and dedicated investigators built a solid case against the corrupt police officer, which resulted in his pleading guilty to a felony. He was subsequently given a sentence of probation requiring restitution, and the felony conviction resulted in his dismissal from the police force. Unfortunately, the slippery attorney—although personally chastised by the District Attorney—slid through the cracks of the system referred to as criminal justice.

4

Eastern Correctional Facility

Eastern Correctional Facility was my introduction to what life was like in New York State’s prisons. On my many visits to the prison—when the gate closed behind me—a very uncomfortable feeling came over me. I would come to empathize with correction officers and can honestly say that I could not have been paid enough money to work inside a prison. In subsequent years, my many visits to various correctional facilities resulted in my drawing these conclusions based on empirical evidence.

The term Correctional Facility is a misnomer because a minimum amount of aberrant behavior is corrected. As a matter of fact, the prison environment is rife with antisocial behavior and a training camp to hone criminal skills. The term prison is much more apropos because the facility’s true purpose is for incarceration of individuals who have broken society’s laws and are considered either dangerous or at risk of being a repeat offender. The condition of a closed—all male—environment consisting of varying personalities, many of them with perverse personalities who seek dominance and control, creates a volatile powder keg of violence, fused and ready to explode. Dominance and control is exercised through formation of gangs. These gangs operate much like organized crime families on the outside. Each gang led by a strong leader whose word is law, and his orders enforced by a group of lieutenants who enjoy special status and privileges for protecting their leader. Inmate gang leaders receive special privileges from their keepers and in return, prevent the lighting of the powder keg’s fuse.

The confinement of a multitude of men—having few principles and even fewer moral values—creates an atmosphere ripe for homosexual activity. The strong prey on the weak, and they must willingly submit to degradation or suffer being beaten and raped. Some willingly submit for reward and special treatment. As a result of unrestrained sexual conduct between inmates Aids has become endemic to the prison society. Compared to open society, it has reached epidemic proportions.

It would seem practical that close supervision of inmates by corrections officers would prevent sexual liaisons and stem the Aids epidemic, so costly to society, and even more costly in terms of life. That is easier said than done however, because confinement creates frustration and permitting sexual conduct reduces that frustration and helps keep the lid sealed on the powder keg. By turning their heads and ignoring the activity, CO’s who want to, Serve my time as easy as possible until retirement, are avoiding conflict, confrontation, and making their job easier.

It is a certainty that criminologists and sociologists have devoted much study to solving the prison environment problems I have cited but for all their intellect, there seems to be no viable solutions recommended. With tongue in cheek, I offer a simple solution to end the problem. The reason it is offered as tongue in cheek is because if enacted, it is certain that the ACLU would scream, and a liberal court system would define the treatment as cruel and unusual punishment. Here is my solution and I ask you the reader to be the judge:

Every prison cell would have a single occupant, and every cell would have its own television set with cable capability complete with HBO. Every cell would have a sink, toilet, cot, and writing table. The gymnasiums, nautilus rooms, and recreation rooms presently existing in our state prisons, would be eliminated and that space converted into cells. Physical exercise would be discouraged. The house trailers on prison grounds (provided for conjugal visits) would be removed and that space converted into cells. Prisoners would not be permitted contact with each other, and every prisoner would serve his entire sentence in his cell, only allowed out by CO escorted visits with family on specifically assigned visitor days. All meals would be served to prisoners in their cells, and all meals would consist of high fat, very tasty foods like steak, beans, eggs, sausage, bacon, French Fries, etc. Pie, cake and high fat content ice cream would be served for desert at lunch and dinner, and a box of chocolate candy would be provided to each prisoner once a week. Keeping prisoners isolated would eliminate their ability to spread disease, form gangs and raise hell. Pampering them with delicious high fat content food would give them heart disease, diabetes and create other individual health problems that would shorten their life span and diminish their capacity to commit crime. Denying them access to weights, exercise machines and physical exercise will make them weak and easier for police to arrest. Now I ask, how could treating them like a self-indulgent couch potato be cruel and unusual punishment!

5

Homicide In Prison

During my nine month tour of duty in Ellenville our BCI squad was called upon to investigate the stabbing of a prison inmate. The seriously injured prisoner was initially transported to Ellenville Community Hospital where the wound was determined to be deep and life threatening. He was transferred to Kingston Hospital for surgery but tragically, the ice pick-like weapon (referred to as a shank) had pierced the man’s liver and he bled to death internally.

This homicide case succinctly goes to the heart of the problems that exist in a hostile prison environment and here are the circumstances from the best of memory.

Hector Sorrano, exited the prison classroom where he was attending classes to receive his high school diploma, and joined the throng of prisoners that moved down the corridor leading out of the education wing of Eastern Correctional Facility. As he neared the doorway at the top of a stairway that separated the school wing from prison housing, an unseen enemy approached from behind and, without warning, punched him in the left side, just under his rib cage. Hector gasped from a jolt of searing pain and immediately knew that he had been stabbed. As he fell to his knees he recognized his assailant who passed him by and proceeded down the stairs, becoming lost in the crowd. The stabbing occurred no more than ten feet from a desk occupied by Correction Officer Wilfredo Perez. In Spanish, Hector called out in more of a painful whisper than scream, Help me please, I’ve been hit with a shank!

CO Perez may or may not have witnessed the assault but we would learn that he did not respond immediately, and sat frozen for a moment, in confusion, fear or perhaps combination of both. When he recovered, he keyed his radio transmitter and reported, Control, this is post one six, an inmate has been stabbed and I need a medical team and assistance.

After the prisoners had cleared the corridor, Perez walked the two paces required to reach Hector’s side and instructed him to lie still on the floor as he had summoned assistance. Within minutes a sergeant arrived leading a team of correction officers specially trained in first aid. Although little blood oozed from the puncture wound, they recognized that a shank had been thrust upward into Hectors abdomen and had likely caused severe internal injury. They called for a stretcher and advised control to summon an ambulance. Fully conscious as the first aid responders worked over him, Hector cursed in Spanish and let it be known that he would get the cowardly m——f——responsible for stabbing him.

Who did this? the sergeant asked repeatedly. Who stabbed you?

Hector refused to identify his assailant and angrily responded, If I tell you, you will have him transferred to another joint! I will take care of this myself!

Upon receiving the report that an inmate had been stabbed by another inmate and had been taken to Ellenville Hospital, I dispatched investigators to the prison to commence investigation. One member of my squad would accompany me to the hospital, where Hector had already been examined and was awaiting transfer to Kingston hospital. Although having been administered pain-killing medication, Hector was awake and very communicative—at our first meeting—as he lay on an emergency room bed. Although a native of New York City, Hector spoke little English and I understood virtually no Spanish. A Spanish speaking police officer was needed and Ellenville was fortunate to have a new arrival, Trooper Joe Sanchez. Upon my request, Joe was assigned to work this case with our BCI unit to act as translator.

At first blush, Hector did not seem to be seriously injured; however, the examining ER physician explained that his liver and an artery had been punctured, causing severe internal bleeding. The doctor told us that immediate surgery was necessary, and as Ellenville hospital was not equipped to perform that surgery, the patient would be transferred to Kingston Hospital. But frankly, the doctor said, shaking his head grimly, I do not believe his chances for survival are good. I believe he is going to succumb to this injury.

With Trooper Sanchez’s assistance, I tried to convince Hector that his condition was serious and he needed to tell us who had stabbed him, so we could arrest that individual.

Arrest him? Hector responded in a voice of sarcasm, What good will that do? He is already in the only place you can put him. Do you think that will accomplish anything? No, I will recover and will take care of this myself and then you can prosecute me for killing the m——f——!

Hector had made a good point and my attempts to persuade him to let the law punish his assailant fell on deaf ears. I directed Trooper Sanchez to accompany Hector in the ambulance to Kingston Hospital and do his best to win him over. Trooper, I advised, make good notes of everything he says and try your best to get him to identify his assailant. I solemnly added, Do you know how to take a dying declaration?

Why, Senior, Trooper Sanchez asked, do you think he is going to die?

I shook my head in the affirmative and replied, "Joe, the doctor told me that he is certain in his mind that Hector is going to internally bleed to death before anyone is able to repair the injury; if he dies without naming his assailant, this is going to be a very difficult case to crack. The law provides that ‘the statement of a person under the firm and fixed belief that he is about to die can be used by prosecution subsequent to death.’ I want you to concentrate on getting that statement and remember, in order for the statement to be admissible in court, you must use this precise wording as a header on the statement:

I Hector Sorrano, under a fixed and firm belief that I am about to die, am giving this statement to Trooper Joseph Sanchez of the New York State Police. I encouraged, it is a tough job, Joe, and I am relying on you to get it done. Can you do it?"

I will try my best, he replied.

Trooper Sanchez would spend the next twelve hours at Hector Sorrano’s side but Hector clung to the belief that he would beat death and personally avenge the cowardly assault upon him. He was wrong! Death proved the victor and Hector went to his grave without revealing the identity of his killer.

Subsequent to the assault, Eastern Correction was locked down, which meant all prisoners were confined to their cells while a search was conducted. This search turned up nearly thirty homemade weapons of varying description but unfortunately—although several shanks were among those items—we could not positively identify the weapon used in the stabbing.

In prison, jailhouse law takes precedent over open society law and every prisoner knows that he must obey a code of silence, or face cruel retribution, and likely even death from his peers. We were certain that numerous prisoners had witnessed the attack on Hector and could identify his assailant, or at least knew the motive for the stabbing. However, none would admit to knowing or seeing anything. Many of the inmates who had been identified as being in the school corridor at the time of the stabbing, when interviewed by teams of investigators, were surly and refused to answer any questions. Our best hope for a credible witness was Correction Officer Wilfredo Perez, who responded to Hector’s cry for help, rendered first aid and conversed with Hector in Spanish.

CO Perez reluctantly came to our BCI office for interview and at first sight of the nervous, slightly built, young fellow, I recognized that he had information concerning the assault that he was reluctant to share. When he appeared in our office, I greeted him with a handshake and noticed that his palm was sweaty and he avoided looking into my eyes. Upon taking a seat, he refused my offer of coffee, gripped the arms of the straight back chair he was sitting in firmly, and his knuckles turned white.

Perez avoided eye contact with both Investigator Ron Keillor and me. His dark brown eyes revealed fright and he nervously asked, How long is this going to take?

Ron and I gave each other a knowing look and then Ron quietly asked, Wilfredo, how long have you been a CO?

Carefully avoiding Ron’s probing blue eyes, the young CO replied in a strained voice, About a year.

Ron continued, How long have you been working at Eastern?

A couple months, he answered while looking around the room.

I studied Wilfredo’s physical appearance and body language as Ron questioned him and thought, This guy is reacting to interview just like all the prisoners we spoke to. If not for the uniform, he could easily pass for an inmate.

Ron continued asking Wilfredo questions intended to put him at ease. He asked him about his family, where he was from, why he became a corrections officer, etc.

However, Wilfredo Perez—who grew up in a high crime environment and save for a stroke of luck had escaped arrest—was not comfortable talking to police officers. What’s more, he was afraid to tell us what he had seen and heard for fear of reprisal from men he recognized more as peers than convicted felons. He tersely responded to Ron’s questions and soon growing frustrated, suddenly blurted, Look, I didn’t see anything and I don’t know who stuck Hector.

Ron and I again shared knowing looks and I responded, Look Wilfredo, I know you’ve got a tough job, but I find it inconceivable that you did not see the assault while seated no more than ten feet from the incident when it happened. Wasn’t it your responsibility at that assigned post to keep an eye on what was going on around you?

Wilfredo responded by giving me a pleading look and stating, Look, you guys have no idea what it’s like working in that place. For self preservation many of us (CO’s) ignore things that prisoners do among themselves.

I responded, Wilfredo, you did see the attack didn’t you? Are you afraid to tell us what you saw for fear of reprisal?

His frightened look belied the answer he gave to my accusation. I didn’t see nothing man! I didn’t see who did it! I don’t know who did it, and Hector didn’t tell me who did it! Now, am I free to go?

I gave him a knowing smile and replied, Wilfredo, you are here as a witness not as a defendant. Of course you are free to go but I want you to give serious thought to your responsibility as a sworn peace officer and citizen. We will give you some time to think that over and then be back in touch.

Yeah, thanks, he muttered dejectedly, then practically jumped out of the chair and hurried from our station.

Wilfredo’s loyalty to his oath of office, the laws of the State that he worked for and his possession of a conscience, would remain in doubt because in numerous re-interviews he held steadfast to the claim, I didn’t see anything and don’t know who stuck Hector.

Throughout our investigation to identify Hector Sorrano’s killer, it seemed we were constantly running into stonewalls. Despite frustration, my squad of investigators doggedly sought to identify the suspect and gather evidence. Hector’s family and friends on the outside of the prison, eventually provided the name of a suspect, and told us of an ongoing feud between Hector and the suspect. However, their information amounted to only an allegation, and minus supporting evidence or admission of guilt from the suspect, he could not be charged. The hardened con, serving a sentence for armed robbery, would make no admissions and we had insufficient evidence to seek his indictment for murder.

Hector’s murder remained unsolved when I transferred out of Ellen-ville—successfully frustrated by a hostile prison environment. Yet, I had no regrets. Victim and perpetrator lived by the sword and were destined to die by the sword. If Hector’s killer had not killed Hector, it is likely Hector would have killed him. Besides, Hector could have named his killer for us before he died and refused to do so. In his determination to avenge himself, he had remained silent and now, if he gained revenge, it would have to be from the grave. Also, the frightened correction officer could have made a case for us and refused to do so.

Hector’s murder was just one example—among countless examples—of just how really incorrect life is in a supposed house of corrections.

6

Prison Strike

During my short tour of duty at Ellenville, the situation that would prove most stressful, time-consuming and biggest challenge, surprisingly, did not involve a crime but a labor action by New York State Corrections Officers. Unable to reach a contract agreement with the state—and despite knowingly violating laws prohibiting strike—the corrections union called a statewide strike. When the strike was announced, the state police were immediately ordered to work 12hour work shifts and we prepared to deal with the possibility of riot, vandalism and the destruction of property. All state prisons went into lock down and nonunion corrections management took residence in their facilities to control day-to-day operation. The Governor activated the National Guard and ordered guardsmen and women to report to the prisons to provide supervision of the inmates. Troopers monitored picket lines to calm tempers and prevent assault or damage. Utilization of the National Guard to perform correction officer functions created a twofold problem for police:

First of all, that move infuriated striking correction officers, causing tension on the picket lines, and physical confrontation between the two entities. Secondly, some members of the National Guard were of questionable character, and there were many incidents of guardsmen bringing contraband into the prisons to give or sell to inmates. As the strike dragged on, tension ran high, animosity grew, and the atmosphere equated to a powder keg, fully armed and waiting for some incident that would ignite it. Troopers grew weary defusing angry emotions, investigating acts of vandalism and quelling violent behavior. The conflict was especially psychologically troublesome to many of our members who had correction officer brothers, uncles, and cousins walking the picket lines. Although not mentioned by the media or addressed by sociology experts, the strike and its related tensions created another anomaly. Corrections officers and their families make up a large percentage of the population of villages and communities in the vicinity of our state prisons. This naturally resulted in the community’s support for the striking officers, resentment toward law enforce-ment—seen as standing in the way of the union obtaining its demands—and fear of the outcome in this power struggle.

On arrival to work one morning, one of my investigators met me at the station door and in a worried voice advised, Senior, I just got off the telephone with troop headquarters. There is a bad situation developing down at Jamesway Plaza and you have been requested to report there, ASAP!

Jamesway Plaza—located less than a mile from our Ellenville office—was a small shopping mall, which derived its name from the largest retail store in the complex. The plaza was conveniently located across route 209, from the road leading into Eastern Correction, and therefore the plaza’s tarmac was being utilized as a change of