Death of a Bronx Cop

By Tom Walker

A fourth-generation New York cop whose great-grandfather was on the force during the Civil War Draft Riots of 1863, and author of Fort Apache: New Yorks Most Violent Precinct, Tom Walker delivers another eye-opening look at the life of being a cop in the Bronx. In this ambitious novel based on events from his familys history, Hugh Ryan, a proud third-generation New York police officer, runs up against the most difficult challenge of his career: battling the institution that has sustained his family for a century, driving him to the brink

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781935278382

Book preview

DEATH OF A

BRONX COP

by

Tom Walker

iUniverse Star

New York Bloomington

Copyright © 2007, 2009 by Tom Walker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced 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 except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-935278-37-5 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-935278-38-2 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009923039

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

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This book is dedicated

to all my loved ones,

who live and struggle

on these pages.

In the days, months, and years to come, more New York City

police will die.

The official cause of death will be listed as suicide, heart

attack, even homicide. In truth, the death certificate should read Organizational Murder—NYPD.

1

IT HAD SELDOM seemed a better time in that weather-cured, brown-shingled house, situated amid the rabbit-and snake-filled marshes of the northeast Bronx. Tonight, all thirteen rooms of the house rocked with raucous laughter and sonorous harmonica music as the Ryans held one of their boisterous, frantic, and not uncommon celebrations.

The winds that summer were soft and warm. The country had paused, groping for a new purpose after Korea. The following year, another less bloody challenge would arise in the Mideast. But that summer was a time of peace, a time to laugh, and a time to reflect.

Usually, these parties ended with everyone mad at some remark that someone else had made. Tonight, though, was different. There would be little time for acrimony or Irish melancholy. A family ritual was to be reenacted.

Earlier that day, Bill, second son of Hugh and Margaret Ryan, had been sworn in as a New York City patrolman. The entire family attended the traditionally brief, but haunting ceremonies at police headquarters. Five police officers were awarded the Medal of Honor—posthumously. Five police widows and their seventeen police children wept unashamedly—as did the Ryans—as did most there. Before summer’s end, the Ryans would twice again weep together as a family.

After having administered the oath of office to the new recruits, the mayor had said, One is thrilled to see the excellent young men we are getting into the department, which is the finest in the world.

Then, the police commissioner had shown the 122 recruits a certificate of appointment issued to Patrolman Matthew James Ryan in 1853. Ryan, he pointed out, had been wounded during the Civil War draft riots of 1863.

The very spirit which prompted Ryan and those old-time policemen to undertake a difficult job is still present today, the commissioner declared, looking sorrowfully at the widows. The entire ceremony took thirty minutes. Its brevity, however, could not diminish the emotion or pride that the Ryans felt. They were the first fourth-generation family in the glorious and gory history of the New York City Police Department.

The party began as soon as the family reached home. It was still going strong as midnight approached. Rick, the oldest son, having refused his father’s coaxing to join the force, shook his head, laughed, and said, Another idiot in the house. Are you sure we don’t have any German blood in us?

Margaret, tall and slender with her long, black Galway hair made into a pompadour in front, cleared her throat and in a high, shrill voice, said, We do, your uncle Sonny.

She was too late. Sonny had stopped playing his medley of Irish tunes and began to play Edelweiss on his harmonica. Margaret handed a drink to Rick and his wife, Julia.

Well, I’ll tell you this, Rick shouted, gulping his straight scotch, I’ll never touch that damn nightstick.

Rick, not tonight, said Margaret softly.

As far as I’m concerned, Rick continued, the stick has a curse on it. Great-Grandpa got shot; Grandpa got run over ...

Rick, said Julia, please. She shifted in her seat nervously.

You must understand, Mother Ryan, said Julia. It’s difficult for highly successful people like Rick to hold on to the past—money has forced him forward.

That’s right, said Rick, raising his drink. We prefer life and money over death—and that’s what this whole evening is all about: death. My family loves death. You see glory in five dead cops.

Margaret turned away without responding. She was thinking. She started to laugh. And that’s the kid whose bottom I wiped until he was thirteen, she remembered. Well, his pants are full of it now, for sure. She went back and kissed him on the top of his head.

Grandpa Ryan slowly extricated his slouching six-foot-five frame from the wicker rocker in one corner of the living room, looked at the pocket watch he wore on a chain, smiled, rubbed his tanned bald head, then announced, It’s midnight, kids.

Hearing this, Hugh Ryan shouted, It’s time, everyone.

The insults and retorts ceased. Tradition would reign for the rest of the night. The happy mob began jostling each other into the huge dining room. Servants would have loved the room, but the Ryans were working-class people themselves with no money or desire for servants. They enjoyed doing their own dirty work.

Margaret ushered each person to their unmarked but designated place at the table, according to the plan she had worked out.

Grandpa, Hugh, and Bill were seated first at the far end of the table. Next to Bill sat his girlfriend, Mary Faherty. The aunts and uncles came after that. Then the pregnant Beth and her husband, Danny, the first Italian in the family. Then the little ones: Kevin, Anne, and Janet. Margaret sat down last at the twenty-foot table, opposite her husband, near the swinging kitchen doors in case she forgot something.

That night, however, everything was ready and on the table. There was corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, red wine (for the Italian, as Grandpa called him), beer (both stout and Rheingold), and milk for the children. The pies, cakes, coffee urn, and brandy sat on a portable serving cart behind Margaret. And hanging from one arm of Grandpa’s chair was the most important and symbolic item of the evening: the family nightstick.

Grandpa Ryan now rose, held his beer glass toward heaven, and said, Thank you, Lord, for today. We pray that Bill will have a successful career and that Beth will have an easy delivery and a fair-skinned baby—a boy if you will.

Everyone shouted, Amen!

With twenty-five of the most voracious eaters and drinkers in the Bronx gathered at one table, the fair-skinned boy-girl debate, prompted by Grandpa’s ad-lib request of the Lord, didn’t quite equal the fervor with which the meal was devoured.

Then, as the coffee and brandy were being served, it was time for the ceremony to begin. Grandpa rose again, taking the nightstick from the chair arm and slipping the thong between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. This ceremony, he said, is a reaffirmation of our family’s commitment to the police department and the law. It has tied us, generation by generation, to something bigger than ourselves. It has given us a purpose, a job, and ensured our survival. He looked sternly at Rick. Some of you might think that this is a weird and meaningless ceremony in today’s high-speed world, but believe me, it’s important to have an anchor from the past when things get rough. And sooner or later, they will ... believe me.

Grandpa twirled the stick a few times to applause and then slapped it into his son’s hand. Hugh Ryan, a graceful six-footer with thinning black hair, held the stick with both hands at either end across his waist.

Bill, a tall and lean youth, anxiously rubbed his left hand through his recruit crew cut.

Bill, said Hugh, looking fondly at his son, this nightstick has been in the family since the 1850s. Your great-grandfather, Matthew James, used it with honor during the Civil War riots of 1863 to defend a Negro boarding house against our own kind, Irish rioters, until little Patty O’Rourke shot him in the leg. Patty was sorry he did that.

He was interrupted by a few nervous giggles. Hugh continued, Your grandpa here used the stick in the 1890s and early 1900s as a footman-bikeman on the Bowery. It served him well until his arm was broken by a runaway beer wagon, and he was forced to retire.

Grandpa interrupted. I also used it to bang on the ends of bars when I wanted a beer.

I’ve been using the same stick, said Hugh, since I became a policeman. Now it’s time to pass it along to you, Bill. Just one thing—never use it for revenge.

But it has broken a few legs, Grandpa interjected.

Pa, said Hugh in a pleading voice. Remember, Bill, society’s revenge is meted out by the courts.

You mean they’re supposed to do it? said Grandpa with a wink.

Hugh twirled the baton and slammed it into Bill’s open hand. The sound from the force of the blow sent a squeal the length of the table.

It’s done, said Grandpa. Let’s have a drink. Have you another Guinness, Margaret?

Right, Rick echoed. I need another drink, too. I’m glad I don’t have to watch this bullshit for another twenty years.

Hey, Dad, said Bill thoughtfully, in the past, the stick only changed hands on retirement. So keep it until you retire and then give it to me.

You mean hold it in trust, so to speak?

Yeah, that’s right.

Okay, I’ll go along with that, said Hugh, putting an arm around his son. Case closed.

Uncle Sonny then broke into his favorite song, the Beer Barrel Polka. Soon, everyone joined in the chorus: Roll out the barrel. We’ll have a barrel of fun ...

Margaret hugged Hugh. It’s been a great day, she whispered.

Hugh kissed her on the cheek, as his right hand stroked her thigh. It’s the Lust again, he said.

Margaret smiled and nodded. Both then joined in on the last line of Sonny’s song, ... for the gang’s all here, as they edged toward the bedroom stairs.

2

THE BRONX WAS eroding rapidly, particularly the Thirty-ninth Precinct at the borough's southern tip. When the post-war migrations from the city began, the Bronx became a junction for those heading north to Westchester, northeast to Connecticut, and northwest into New Jersey. The well-to-do had already garrisoned themselves in Riverdale, along the Hudson, or moved up to Jerome Avenue and the Grand Concourse.

Whites, fleeing the inner city, leapfrogged the Bronx, but the poorer blacks and Puerto Ricans, crossing the same Harlem River, bogged down in the Bronx. It was only natural. In their zoot suits, they could only go as far as the three-nickel subway fare took them. To reach the suburbs, one needed seventy-five cents and a three-piece charcoal-grey suit.

As the path these new immigrants followed led into the Thirty-ninth Precinct, many Italians and Irish, who had sought the greenery of the Bronx after their own ghetto experience, moved again. Some, however, decided to hang tough and defend the neighborhood niches they had dug for themselves.

The Thirty-ninth Precinct quickly became a war zone with daily skirmishes between the competing groups. The poor newcomers, stuffed into rotting, roach-filled, rat-infested tenements, soon learned that the cruel, ruthless streets north of the river offered little more than their old world to the south. The seeds for the discontent of the sixties had fallen on fertile ground.

The commanding officer of the Thirty-ninth was Captain Marvin Adler. Though an excellent administrator, Adler’s style and appearance irritated top police brass. Adler was different. He looked more like a Macy’s floor manager—white carnation in his blue blazer collar with matching slacks—than a police captain. However, his non-uniform suit was always blue, a concession made to appease his division commander, Terence McGlick.

Adler, by his own admission, felt no need for personal, one-on-one involvement in the fierce and bloody conflicts pervading his precinct. He was an executive, and he intended to act like one.

Today had been another hard day in the Three-nine for Adler. He slumped at his desk. As he did more often than not lately when he had some time to reflect, he thought of his boss, Inspector McGlick. Why doesn’t the stupid bastard listen to me? he thought. The solution isn’t going head to head with these people—it’s getting into their heads, finding out their needs, and reaching some kind of accommodation. Didn’t the police commissioner assign me to the Three-nine because of my natural abilities as a negotiator? Why can’t that big donkey understand that? he asked himself.

Adler pursed his lips in disgust and picked up his brown leather telephone book. He thought about his own needs and decided that what he really wanted now was a good hump. He thumbed through the brown book, found the desired number, and then studied it, silently debating his choice. Adler had become a big fan of the local ladies. He had gone native, as his men called it.

But before Adler could make his call, his clerical officer, a seedy-looking man named Tucci, suddenly appeared at the door.

How did the interview with that dumped detective go, Captain?

You mean Al Hirschel, I guess, said Adler.

Another shithead, huh, Cap? said Tucci.

Adler winced; he always did at Sal Tucci’s crude characterizations. Sit, Sal, Adler ordered in mock anger, and I’ll fill you in. Tucci, designated as the Three-nine’s corporate memory years earlier, took a chair in front of the captain’s desk.

Hirschel’s been working midtown Manhattan, began Adler.

A prostitute? Tucci asked. His question, meant to elicit the particular sin for which Hirschel had been transferred, irritated Adler.

Sal, Adler evenly replied, I’m not playing twenty questions again today.

Sorry, Cap, Tucci perfunctorily replied.

Adler continued, deciding to shoot from the hip. It was the only way with Tucci. Hirschel was shaking down just about every man, woman, and child he came across. The guy wore asbestos gloves—nothing was too hot for him. He would take a deuce from a pregnant duck. He volunteered to work every Sunday so his Christian buddies could take their kids to church, so he could collect from every store that violated the Sabbath law selling beer. The guy was a vacuum cleaner. He never left the precinct—and that’s the least of it. And you ask, ‘How did it g°?’

What was the clincher? Tucci inquired, realizing that there was still something left unsaid.

Adler smiled. He admired Tucci’s tenacity. He was nabbed trying to shake down a high-class prostitute who was serving a city councilman on the cuff. That will do it every time. Free love is inviolate in this town.

It’s going to be tough to find a partner for this guy, said Tucci. Any suggestions, Cap?

I’ve been thinking about it, said Adler. I think it’s best if you pair him with that black detective, Gordon Davis. He’s a survivor.

We’re sure getting some winners lately, said Tucci, probing.

We’ve become a punishment precinct, said Adler thoughtfully. It’s the last stop for most of them.

Now, how’s that supposed to make me feel, said Tucci wryly.

You can get the hell out of here, said Adler, smiling. That bull McGlick should be charging through that door any minute now.

Well, in another six months, you should be deputy inspector and have a nice staff position at headquarters, Tucci offered as he inched toward the door.

Good-bye, Sal, said Adler, cutting Tucci off before he asked another question.

After Tucci left, Adler thought about it. He wondered if he could last another six months in this asylum. Then he smiled, remembering the one thing that would help. He dialed Carmen Garcia’s number.

3

TERENCE McGLICK epitomized downtown's concept of what a good leader should be. He spent much of his time on the streets, getting personally involved in every variety of radio call. No matter what the job, if McGlick was close by, he drove over. Downtown liked that. Innocent victims liked it too. McGlick was tough, both mentally and physically. He never improvised or questioned department policies, and it wasn't unusual for him to pull down a twenty-four-hour stint. Downtown liked that too.

Today, McGlick was driving himself back uptown from the Manhattan Athletic Club. As an Olympic light-heavyweight boxing champion, he had a lifetime pass to the club and used it once a week. Four other days a week, he worked out at Stillman’s Gym in the Bronx.

Today’s workout at the Athletic Club had been a particularly bruising one. McGlick felt good as he edged his green departmental Ford over the Willis Avenue Bridge from Harlem into the Bronx. Only last month, he had turned fifty-three. Yet, his physique was impressive, and he meant to keep it that way.

After checking in at the division office, where they weren’t surprised at his earlier-than-scheduled appearance, he informed the division wheelman that he would be on the air and headed toward the Three-nine precinct.

Cops in the Three-nine had been responding sluggishly to their jobs lately, and McGlick decided that a little shaking and hollering, his specialty, was in order. If it was happening in another precinct, he would have probably called the commander and told him to correct the situation. But this was the Three-nine, Adler’s precinct, and, McGlick assured himself, such courtesy was a waste of time. McGlick shook his head in disgust thinking about the man. It was more than a professional distaste; it was a personal hatred. McGlick despised Adler because he was a Jew.

Ironically, McGlick liked Jews. In the twenties and thirties, he had fought alongside them on lower eastside streets, drank with them in Tenderloin gin mills, and screwed them in westside bawdy houses. The Jews he knew were tough and dirty sons of bitches. He loved them. They were his kind of people. In 1927, Moshe the Jew from Brooklyn was the first man to ever floor McGlick in the ring. It was a left to the testicles. Moshe called it his Virgin Mary punch because you couldn’t get an erection for a week afterwards. McGlick never forgot that week and all the overly seductive offers he had had to refuse.

McGlick had nearly married Sally Plotnick,