by Henry Hack
“Anytime, Loot. When you need a zip-zip-zip, I’ll be there.”
EIGHTEEN
By 5:45 it appeared they were all talked out with the tales of terror from their day at Gestapo Headquarters. I stood in the middle of them and gave them a brief rundown of my experiences there. I said, “Now, as unbelievable as this is going to sound at this particular time, let me tell you some good things about the Internal Affairs Bureau.”
I waited for the groans and comments to subside and said, “We belong to a department of more than 35,000 men and women. As in any large organization we have our share of misfits – wife beaters, druggies, alcoholics, thieves, and even an occasional murderer. You know this as well as I do. That’s why we need Internal Affairs. To police ourselves, so someone else doesn’t have to. They do a good job of taking down those misfits, and if they stopped there, I would be their biggest cheerleader. However, their tactics in riding roughshod over us for bullshit allegations has caused them to be distrusted and despised.”
“Amen to that,” Don Nitzky said. “Look what we all went through today.”
“Let me give you an example that happened to a friend of mine, a beat cop, several years ago. IAB received information that a cop’s wife was a drug addict and the cop was obtaining drugs for her from the hospital on his post. They staked him out for over six months and the allegations were proved untrue. The cop went into the hospital once, to assist in bringing multiple aided cases into the ER. It was bitter cold and he stayed for a cup of coffee. At the conclusion of their investigation the cop received a complaint for leaving his post and not notifying the desk sergeant.”
“You mean for the cup of coffee?” Cindy asked.
“Yes. Ten days pay for that. The other violation they observed was one day the cop took fifteen extra minutes for meal, and was apparently not disciplined by the desk sergeant. At his interview, the sergeant explained the officer apologized and said the diner, a half mile from the call box, was busy and he had to wait a long time for his food. The sergeant said he verbally reprimanded the officer.”
“But I bet that wasn’t good enough for them,” John Micena said.
“Correct. The sergeant should have recorded that reprimand in the training ledger and the fifteen minute difference in the time log. He did neither. Ten days pay on each charge.”
“Those bastards,” muttered Tom Catalano.
“And, finally, the precinct CO was given a letter of reprimand – a certain career killer – for failure to properly train his sergeant.”
“Unbelievable,” Artie Ferrand said. “How can the top brass allow them to do this to us?”
“IAB does things like this to justify their existence because there are not enough bad cops around to do so. And the one guy who can change their culture, our police commissioner, has not seen fit to do so.”
“Why not?” Nitzky asked. “Haven’t the unions complained?”
“All the time, and he has always turned a deaf ear. He was a boss in Internal Affairs for a few years himself, so maybe that explains it.”
“When you get to be the commissioner you’ll set them straight, right, sir?” Ferrand asked.
“Artie, the last thing in the world I want is that job. But maybe you or Cindy could aspire to that position and set things straight.”
. . .
We finally put IAB behind us and the day tour was out the door by six o’clock. So was I. I was home by six-thirty and Vivian and I had a glass of wine before dinner in the den, and the kids joined us with their cans of cola. I rarely brought my work home with me, but this case was an exception. We all knew Mort Stern, and I would often bring Maddy and Andy to his store for an egg cream or root beer float. Many times Vivian would join us. My fourteen-year old son said, “I don’t understand why you had to go to a grand jury and Internal Affairs.”
“Andy,” I said, “it’s routine and necessary. No one would want police shooting civilians - even though they were bad guys – without proper and legal justification, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so, but it seems the bad guys have more rights than the good guys.”
“No,” I said, although I secretly agreed with him.
“Dad,” Maddy said, “Do you think Mr. Stern is in heaven now? I mean I know he didn’t believe in God, but –”
“But he was a good man, right? My answer to your question is this – if there is a heaven, Mordechai Stern should certainly be there. Picture this - Mort Stern finds himself at the pearly gates seconds after his death. He tells St. Peter, ‘I can’t believe it! I vuz wrong! Let me apologize to the Big Guy, and I’ll vip him up an egg cream.’”
After the chuckles died down I said, “If you want to continue this discussion, let’s do it after dinner. I had a long day and I am one hungry guy.”
And continue it we did, discussing life, death, God, Jesus, Heaven, Messiahs, Moses, resurrections, faith, science, reason, and belief. The kids had been exposed to a lot of conflicting ideas in their years. They had a father who was raised a Roman Catholic until he found out he was a Jew, and he had explored and partook in that faith for a while. Their mother was a Lutheran and they were brought up in that faith. They had one set of Jewish grandparents, they never knew, and one set of Christian grandparents. Also a Jewish grand uncle and an Irish Catholic grand aunt. And they were adored by all of them. Confusion, indeed.
One day Maddy had said, “Andy and I discussed all of this and came to the conclusion, for the time being, we’ll continue going to the Lutheran church with mom.” She smiled and added, “You could come with us once-in-a-while besides Christmas and Easter. We are a family, you know.”
I smiled back and said, “I am a man of all religions, my dear children. I admire and respect them all.”
And believe in not one of them.
. . .
The next two days would be wrap-up ones. I called Captain McHale in the 106 Precinct and told him I was sending Ferrand and Jamison back to him on the following Monday morning. He said, “Oh, thank you, Mike. Didn’t you say three days?”
“Has it been longer, Captain?” I joked. “Time does fly by.”
“How did they work out for you?”
“Real pros. I’m sending over letters of commendation for them for their part in this investigation. They got great experience including grand jury testimony and a grilling at Gestapo Headquarters.”
“I bet they loved that,” he said, “but it was good they got their feet wet.”
I next called Lieutenant Simmons in the 106 Squad and told him Catalano and Nitzky would be returning Monday with letters of commendation. “Glad to have them back, Mike. And congrats on solving that case.”
“Thanks, Bert. Hope those captain’s bars come your way soon.”
On Friday I got a visit from not one, not two, but four narcotics squad detectives – Isnardi, Geyer, Evans, and Monroe. Charlie Evans said, “We got some info for you and your team, but first I gotta ask how you did it?”
“Did what, Charlie?”
“Get our IAB appearances postponed. Me and Doug were supposed to go over there yesterday.”
“They weren’t postponed,” I said. “They were canceled. This case is closed.”
“Uh, huh,” he said with a smile. “You must have some real Big Kahuna motherfucker in your corner, you white devil.”
“Could be. Now tell me, bro, what has you gots for us?”
We all gathered in the main squad room and I said, “Stop slaving over those typewriters and listen up to our brothers from Narcotics.”
George Geyer said, “When word of Rosario’s death got around, a lot of tongues magically loosened up.”
&nbs
p; “I had two of my informants tell me about cases similar to Stern’s,” Doug Monroe said. “They said two junkies they knew had been strong-armed by Rosario to set up robberies like he did with Vinny DeGiglio.”
“We did some follow-up and sure enough there was a stick-up where the proprietor was shot in the arm and his hidden cash box stolen,” Evans said.
“And a back door burglary,” Isnardi said, “where a well-hidden bag of cash disappeared with the wind.”
“Any word on the distributor of HHC?” Micena asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Monroe said. “Another informant came through on that, but we missed him.”
“What do you mean?” Catalano asked.
“When we raided his place,” Evans said, “it was empty. A crummy two-bedroom apartment over a hardware store. All we found were traces of heroin in the floorboard cracks and a handful of glassine envelopes.”
“With the HHC logo stamped on them?” I asked.
“Yes, on four of them.”
“Any way to follow up on that?” Nitzky asked.
“Not until that logo shows up on the streets again,” Monroe said. “But at least they’re outta there and probably outta Queens completely.”
As they left, Charlie Evans said to me, “Hey, bro, it was great workin’ with you again. Like the old days when we walked the beat in the Seven-Five. Hey, do you remember the time we beat the shit out of –?”
I put my hand up and said, “Stop, Charlie, I don’t remember anything from those days.”
He laughed and said, “Be thankful they didn’t have all these cell phones and video cameras way back then. Your white ass would be in jail right now.”
“And so would your black one, bro.”
“H-m-m-m, you do make a point. Adios, MF.”
. . .
Friday arrived and the team went to lunch together for the last time. I told them as soon as they finished up they could go home – after I read and signed their reports which, I reminded them, had to be complete and grammatically correct. Richie Paul, certainly not an English major, said, “Don’t worry, Boss. I used a couple of semicolons.”
“Probably in the middle of a word,” said John Micena.
“Uh, Lieutenant,” Officer Ferrand said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away, Artie.”
“I don’t understand how you let Detective Evans get away with the language he used. He was outright disrespectful.”
I smiled and said, “No, Artie, he was not. We have a friendship and camaraderie that transcends rank here in the dicks. I assure you he would call me Lieutenant Simon if a higher ranking officer were present. This is not the uniform force, different rules apply here.”
“You can fucking say that again,” Cindy Jamison blurted out, and then turned beet red and put her hand up to her mouth as we all roared in laughter.
“Goddammit, Cindy,” Richie Paul said. “You’re going to make a helluva detective.”
“Fucking A,” Tom Catalano said.
I looked at this fine group of cops assembled together for no doubt the last time and felt a swell of pride in my profession and the people I worked with. They were a dedicated, class act indeed. The whole bunch.
When I got back to the office there was a FedEx package addressed to me sitting on my desk. I zipped it open and inside was a sealed plastic bag and a note from Robert Stern. It said, “Debbie and I wish to thank you once again for your outstanding work in solving my dad’s murder. I know you will distribute these ashes on your parents’ graves, as you mentioned. Some are already in his store, so it is not necessary to sweep the floor ever again. I also wanted to let you know I received a call about a month after my father’s’s murder from Bruno Dettler hoping I would help him contact Mort, as the phone number he had for him had been disconnected. I knew the story of their time together in Auschwitz, and Dettler told me he had recently been released from prison and wanted to visit Mort in America. When I told him of his death, Bruno responded in broken English he and Mort had wept bitter tears when they had reached Dresden so many years ago and saw the utter destruction of their beloved city. Then he said, ‘But I have not wept since, even after my conviction, but I will weep hard now for mein friend und your father.’ All my gratitude and affection, Robert Stern.”
It was a good thing my office door was closed as I reached into my back pocket for my handkerchief and automatically checked my other pockets for my comb and penknife. They were there, as Mort Stern instructed me so long ago.
As I wiped a tear from my cheek, there was a knock on my door. It was Richie Paul with a batch of reports for me to read and approve. “Just a couple left, Mike,” he said. “We’ll be done before four.”
Good, I thought, I had a place to stop before heading home.
NINETEEN
As I drove east on the Grand Central Parkway in Queens, heading toward Beth David Cemetery in Elmont to visit my parent’s graves, the memory of the items in the box of memorabilia came back vividly. When I was alone in my bedroom, I opened their wedding album. My immediate reaction was, My God, they look so young. And indeed they were, just twenty-five years old. My mother was beautiful, and a glance in the mirror left no doubt that I was her son. And my father, standing stiff, but with a smile that said he was the luckiest guy in the world at that moment in time.
What a treasure trove of memories and information were in that cardboard box. Right beneath the album was a smaller one containing black and white photos of him and others in uniform. He had been in the Army during the Korean War, and he had won a few medals of valor. My mother’s teaching diplomas and pictures of her second grade class were there, and a thick journal she had hand-written over the years. A cardboard folder with an eight-by-ten photo of my father in his police uniform was lying atop a plastic box which contained his tie clasp, whistle, memo books and silver police shield in a leather case. And at the bottom of the box was me, the newborn baby boy, smiling in numerous photos alone, with my parents, with my grandparents and with my adoptive parents. And everyone was so damned happy, unaware of the tragedy that was soon to envelop them.
In those hours I spent examining those memories, two things cemented themselves in my mind. The first confirmed my decision to enter the army, like my father had done. And the second confirmed my decision for my life’s work when I came out of the service. I, Michael Simon, would become a police officer. And that’s exactly what I did.
Beth David Cemetery was about a mile over the Queens border in Nassau County and was within the confines of the Fifth Precinct where my father had served over forty years ago. I had no trouble finding my parent’s gravesite in the confusing, narrow lanes of crowded headstones. I had been there many times before, the first at age eighteen soon after the family decided to tell me who I was, and who they were. I parked and walked over and put a pebble, in the Jewish tradition, on top of each half of the double headstone. First, my mother – “Veronica L. Simon – January 4, 1932 – June 16, 1957 - Our cherished daughter.” Then my father, “Andrew H. Simon – August 2, 1931 – June 16, 1957 – Our cherished son.”
“Mom, Dad,” I said aloud, “I have a gift for you. The ashes of a once devout Jew who became a non-believer. I am also a non-believer, but I also believe in every non-believer there remains a tiny bit of hope, not for himself, but for those whom he loves dearly. And I hope Mordechai Stern has entered eternal happiness with you two in heaven.”
I prayed the Jewish prayers for the dead and also said the rosary. A visage of Mort flashed through my mind of him saying, Do both. It vudn’t hoit. When I finished, I got up off my knees, wiped the dust from my trousers, and scattered Mort’s ashes around the gravesite. Once again speaking aloud I said, “Mom, D
ad, I have not forgotten. I have not forgotten the second person who helped murder you. I have not given up. I am getting closer, I can feel it. I promise you justice, and I promise you closure. Your son will not fail you.”
. . .
I was at my small cape-cod home in Fresh Meadows before six o’clock and told Vivian of my visit to the cemetery and my promise to my parents. She said, “Are you now getting closer to finding the second guy?”
“The science has advanced, but I need fresh eyes and fresh insights to look at the whole thing. I’m too close to it. I’ve read the files so many times nothing sticks anymore. I know I was put in charge of Queens Homicide for a reason—”
“Put in charge by God, perhaps?” she said, nudging me in the ribs. “Or is Divine Providence more palatable? Or maybe Mysterious Unknown Forces?”
I laughed and said, “Okay, okay you holy-roller, you got me. As I was saying, my drive to solve – fully solve – the murders of my parents caused me to seek out that assignment. First as a detective there, and now as the CO. Thus far, I have failed. But Mort’s death has put a new impetus in me to attack the investigation.”
“And who will be your new eyes with fresh insights?”
“My top two guys, John Micena and Richie Paul.”
“Do they know who you are, and what happened forty-three years ago?”
“Not all of it. Few people outside my immediate family know.”
“I hope they crack it for you. I fear it has been cranking up in your brain to the point of obsession.”
“You noticed? Well, you’re right. I truly want to solve this mystery and put it behind me. I want to move on. I need closure on this once and for all.”
“Then what?”
“Maybe an early retirement – I have my twenty in, you know – or study for the Captain’s test. It depends.”
