Mike McAlary - Buddy Boys

Buddy Boys

When Good Cops Turn Bad

Mike McAlary

For my wife Alice, New Yorks finest

Prologue

Henry Winter lay in bed, dreaming. He was sleeping late, again.

In spite of all the recent developments in the New York City police officers lifea period of betrayal, deception and fearHenry Winter had amazed even his own wife with his ability to fall asleep during this time of unrest. He didnt tell his wife that the only time he felt unburdened now was when he slept. He didnt have to record his dreams. Henry found sanctuary in slumber.

Crooked Brooklyn street cops were free from harm in Henry Winters dreams. They could speak freely without fear of punishment. No one played Henrys dreams back on a little tape recorder, listening to them on a headset. No one plugged them into a videotape recorder either, watching them on a television. No one dissected the ghetto cops dreams, pulling out names and addresses, marking down dates and times of crimes committed by other members of the New York City Police Department.

Much later, Henry Winters dreams would turn to nightmares. Sometimes he would awaken in a cold sweat, his bedclothes sodden, his body twitching uncontrollably. Betsy Winter would be holding her husband, trying to shake him free of some unseen torment.

Its happening again, she would say. Isnt it?

Henry Winter would grab a cigarette from the pack of Newports on his nightstand and strike a match to it. Mentholated smoke would fill the couples tiny Valley Stream, Long Island bedroom. Then Henry would run his fingers through his blonde hair.

Yes, it was happening again, Henry would realize. And then the conversationsthe headings on the tapes he was recording on a small machine he carried hidden in a pocket of his bulletproof vestwould come back to him. The conversations always began with the same introduction.

On some darkened and desolate Brooklyn street, Henry Winter and a faceless investigator from the Police Departments Internal Affairs Division would meet in an unmarked car, huddled over a tiny metal machine.

And it would begin again.

At this time I am testing an Olympus microrecorder, model number L200, serial number 211417. This recorder is to be used to record conversations by Police Officer Henry Winter during a tour of duty on this date in the Seventy-seventh Precinct. Officer, do you realize that once this recorder is activated it will record any conversations by you or directed towards you?

Yes, Henry would reply in a dead, colorless voice.

Officer, are you willing to record all conversations of your own free will?

Yes.

Have you been instructed on the proper use of this recorder?

Yes I have.

This is the primary recorder to be used during your tour of duty. I ask that you have nothing in your pockets that would interfere with that recording. Is that understood?

Yes.

End of this portion of the tape.

On the morning of June 22, 1986, Henry woke to the sound of a telephone ringing at his bedside. The phone sounded like an alarm. At first Henry was confused; a shaft of midmorning summer light shone in his eyes. He grappled with the phone, lifting the receiver with one hand and pressing a small button on a recording machine with the other. It was a practiced maneuver.

Brian ORegan, forty-one, another police officer from Henrys Bedford-Stuyvesant commandthe 77th Precinctwas calling. ORegan wanted to talk about the job. He had just finished working a midnight tour, and he was excited.

Brian ORegan was about to engage in the single most important conversation of his life. It would be replayed before a special grand jury hearing evidence in the most widespread case of police corruption in New York City since the days of the Knapp Commission. One morning phone call to Henry Winters bedroom would ultimately lead a corrupt cop to the most desperate of acts.

We had a very good night last night, Brian said.

Ver-ry goo-ood, Henry replied. Now he needed to get more information. His role as an undercover cop demanded specific dates and times.

What happened, Brian?

Oh, we got a job, Twelve-sixty Pacific Street, man with a gun, we had a complainant and all.

Twelve-sixty?

Yeah. Above the Chinese restaurant, Pacific and Nostrand. Last night we had a gun run there. And we met a complainant whos the superintendent of the building. You would have loved this onea Rastafarian man with all the dreadlocks, but he dont want anybody in the building with no guns. And he says, real quiet like to me, Theyre dealing cannabis in the second floor right apartment. So Junior bangs on the door and they let him and the other guys into the apartment. Billy Gallaghers there. Sammy Bell. Billy Rivera. Theyre looking all over the place. Looking and looking. Dont find anything.

Im outside, just standing there in front of the building, finger up my ass as usual, thinking, What the hells the story? What are they doing in there? I look up at the fire escape. And ho-ly shit, theres a fucking wad of money sitting on the fire escape.

On the fire escape?

I hauled ass upstairs. Junior! Junior! I grabbed him. Go to the front. The fire escape near the left window. All the way in the corner. Look, and get out there as fast as you can, some of the money is blowing away.

He goes out there. He calls me out in the hallway. He says, Come here. He says, What the fuck are we going to do with all of this? Theres a big wad of ones, tens, twenties. I says, Oh, shit. Were gonna have to voucher some of this. They had one hundred and seven nickel bags of marijuana. So I bring the money inside another room. I tell Junior, Gimme the shit. And then I started shoving some money in my pocket, shoving it in my socks and everywhere else.

Beautiful, Henry said.

I grabbed Sammy and said, Look, I found it. He says, Oh man, theres a lot there. So I vouchered one hundred and eighty dollars. One-eight-oh.

One eighty?

One-eight-oh, Brian said. We did nine-six-oh. Apiece.

Henry was stunned. The cops had hit a jackpot.

Nine You did nine hundred and sixty dollars apiece?

Yep.

Nine-sixty for you, nine-sixty for Junior?

Yep.

Henry needed to know about the other cops now. Had they been given a share of the stolen money?

And did you throw Sammy or Billy anything? he asked.

We couldnt.

Oh yeah, because you dont know how good they are. Henry sounded disappointed.

Thats it. I mean, hey, naturally we would, but Im afraid, you know. I dont know anything about these guys. What am I gonna do, Henry? If you dont know who youre with, you cant just go, Heres yours.

No, Brian, you cant.

After a pause, Brian began again.

Yeah. Then we did Classon Avenue.

Classon and where? Henry wanted to know.

Between Dean and Bergen.

Yeah, how did you do there?

Very bad. Seventy dollars and some of that funny stuff.

Henry would have to be careful here. He would have to know how much drugs had been stolen and what kind. He would offer to fence the stolen drugs for ORegan. Then he could turn them over to a prosecutor.

Whats funny stuff? Henry asked, already realizing that Brian had stolen crack, a mutant form of cocaine that is smoked in a pipe.

The funny stuff in the capsules.

Oh, the crack.

Yeah.

And I got fifty-eight for you, Henry.

Fifty-eight what?

Funny things in capsules, Brian said. You want them?

Yeah, Brian. You want me to get rid of them for you? I can ask my guy and see if he wants them.