Crime Fighters

I was 41 when I finally got a seat at the table. I had been a cop since about the time I could walk into a bar without an adult. But until 1994, when I was appointed deputy commissioner of the New York Police Department, I felt very much on the outside, my cheeks red from the cold and my nose pressed against the window. At that time there were separate police forces in New York for the streets, transit and public housing. Only one had nearly 36,000 officers and a reputation equal to that of the New York Yankees. For most of my career, I was with one of the other two.

By the time I took over as deputy commissioner of the NYPD, I knew a lot about what was right and wrong, operationally, with the city's policing system. But the most serious problems I encountered in my new position walked on two legs. They were the detectives who would burn up the critical first few days of an investigation boasting about their cases at the bar. They were the overweight cops you'd see sleeping through the night in their patrol cars. They were, worst of all, the conscientious objectors who said, "We don't make collars," as if effecting an arrest was an activity reserved for lower life-forms.

The story is the same in any police department: Forty percent of the force hide behind desks. Another 40 percent perform without passion. Ten percent loathe the job. The remaining ten percent of the officers treat their work as a vocation. During my years on patrol, I saw the same 20 transit cops, 20 housing cops and 100 street cops downtown at the courthouse, testifying against crooks they had collared.

A similar pattern holds with bad guys. One study found that of the 10,000 boys born in 1945 who lived in Philadelphia between the ages of ten and 18, an elite six percent were responsible for about two thirds of the violent crimes attributed to members of that group. That's been the matchup for as long as anyone can remember: the all-star cops versus the all-star crooks. The chief difference between the crook and the cop is that the latter is obligated to follow a code of engagement. In a hit-and-run battle, only the crooks flourish. If a police department could double the number of cops focused on apprehending criminals, the momentum might shift in the public's favor.

Playing to Win

Police often talk about who within a department is "in the game," meaning which cops are in the down-and-dirty business of catching crooks. The game imagery is appropriate, because there has to be an element of sport to the work. A more useful metaphor for intelligent policing is the hunt. Many of the people we're trying to catch are predators. Robbers, rapists and serial killers obviously fit into that category, but burglars, pickpockets and scam artists also use the logic of a predator in choosing their victims, their hunting grounds, their hours of work. Rare is the crime that doesn't transform an otherwise mindless crook, at least momentarily, into a predator.

In crime, as in nature, predators seek out the old, the young, the weak and the disabled. Some predators run their victims down, lie in wait and pounce, or circle to make an assessment. Others make careful plans before their attack, which is usually swift, ferocious and efficient.

In the wild and on the streets, the watering hole is the scene of many attacks. The lions know the habits of their prey. If you're hunting lions, you'd better hang out at the watering hole too.

For many years, Times Square was a place where a transit cop could search for action when things got slow downstairs. In the hole the work could be numbing--hour after hour of climbing stairs and roaming platforms, knowing that though the robbery crews rode the trains, 90 percent of their crimes occurred at street level. To make the work interesting, I taught myself how to spot concealed weapons. I'd stand in front of a mirror and study the way a gun looked under a jacket, over the shoulder, tucked into the waistband--anywhere on the body it could be hidden. On the job, I'd stop two or three people a day. Many of the guns were licensed; some were not. The drill went like this: With my nonshooting hand, I'd grab the handle of the gun. The guy would freeze and usually obey an order to put his hands on his head. If he didn't, my hold on his gun put him off balance, so I could spin him around and get cuffs on him.

Times Square was a smorgasbord for every miscreant, thief, robber and trickster of the day. The Port Authority Bus Terminal--New York's budget entrance--deposited scores of runaways, thrill seekers, hicks and wage earners onto Eighth Avenue. Potential victims were everywhere, flush with cash and often loaded on booze or drugs. Some of the crooks were comical. Gregory Gadson was the worst pickpocket I've ever seen. He had big, swollen hands and was so awkward he almost never finished digging a pocket before the victim was staring him straight in the eyes. The only thing Gadson had going for him was a twin brother. The Gadsons worked the same blocks, so when the cops caught up with one because someone had accused him of picking a pocket, he always had an alibi. In the early Nineties, a group of strong-arm crooks worked the junk-food joints. One character would squirt a gob of ketchup on a tourist's shirt, and his partner would grab the tourist's bag as he looked down. As for drug trafficking, I'm sure some people purchased pot or cocaine in Times Square, but oregano and baking soda sold just as well. Plenty of customers also were willing to pay for the less-heralded high of "spitback"--an orange juice-like concoction that methadone users manufactured by spitting out their daily ration from the clinics.

Times Square had con men working every conceivable angle. Scams work on the principle that everyone has a little larceny in them. Even visitors who had no interest in cheap sex or quick highs were easily fooled into believing they could profit from lawlessness. A guy with a five-dollar phony gold chain would walk up to an out-of-towner, show him a $500 price tag from Macy's and tell him the piece could be his for $50. "Real gold doesn't tarnish in a flame," he'd say, then hold the necklace over a lighter. People bought the stuff because they figured they were getting stolen merchandise at a discount. I'd tell these crooks about another way to test for gold. I called it the throw test. When they'd ask me to demonstrate I'd heave the chain across 42nd Street and tell them you can't throw real gold that far.

At one time, you could throw a chain in any direction and come close to hitting a three-card-monte team. The dealer's partner, often dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit, would enter the game reluctantly, draw a crowd and walk away a big winner. The victim would be somebody in the audience who concluded either that he had stumbled upon the world's only honest monte game or that he, like the Brooks Brothers guy, had picked up on the card-turner's clumsy attempt to cheat. He always walked away poorer, as did the spectators who found that their pockets had been picked.

In official police language, a watering hole is a "chronic condition." A check-cashing business that serves senior citizens can create a chronic condition as easily as a monte game can. Rush-hour crowds are chronic conditions that arrive each day as predictably as the tides.

The Classic Victim

Anyone can be a victim; all we can do is make ourselves less inviting targets. I was the victim of back-to-back burglaries (continued on page 158)crime fighters (continued from page 84) when I first moved to Manhattan. (I had gates on one apartment window but not on the other--guess which way the perps came in.) But some people seem to be gluttons for punishment. Consider those who fall prey to subway lush workers--bottom-feeders on the predatory food chain. They target drunks who have passed out in public, such as on a train or deserted subway platform. They sit next to the sleeping victim and patiently tug at the lining of his pocket until his wallet falls out. Others slash the pocket open with a razor. The rule of the little game we played with lush workers was that we had to get them "right." We had to catch them red-handed, not just patting pockets, which is a lesser crime. It was a challenge, because there aren't many places we could hide in an empty station, and veteran lush workers like Nate Nappa and Six-Finger Gibson knew all the undercover cops.

One night, a bartender at a Manhattan dive started drinking near the end of his shift. When he arrived at a familiar wooden bench on the platform at the subway station, he couldn't resist putting up his feet and dozing. By the time I spotted him, he was being circled by a lush worker named Harlow Haywood and one of Harlow's pals, who spotted me. Knowing that lush workers take their sweet time casing an opportunity, especially on an open platform, I decided to board the train and get off at the next stop. Once on the street, I flagged a cab back to where I'd come from and raced down the escalator and then to the outside edge of the platform. When I sprung out into the open, the bartender was still snoozing, but Harlow and his pal had made their move. They wound up getting 18 months to three years for waiting too long to put their hands in the guy's pockets.

Maybe that experience changed the bartender's life, but I doubt it. He showed up to testify in court wearing a pair of pants whose pocket had been stitched up after a run-in with another lush worker. He was a classic victim. He could quit riding the subways or take a job at a different bar in a different part of the city. But as long as he traveled alone in a state of impaired consciousness, he was going to lose his money. He was a zebra--if a lion didn't find him, a crocodile would.

The Moment of Truth

In just about every crime, there is a moment when the predator locks onto his target and the rest of the world dissolves. When a cat hunts, its eyes set on a point, its head goes down, shoulders up, and its muscles roll into a low, slow creep.

Most people would be lucky never to see that fixed look in the eyes of another human being, but for an undercover cop it's the signal to spring. When trailing a predator who I think might pull a strong-arm robbery, I have to have a hand on his collar at the same instant he throws his arm across the victim's throat. A moment sooner and I'll have no grounds for an arrest. A moment later and the victim will get hurt. It's the same look whether the predator is about to snatch a bag, take down a drunk with a sleeper hold or point a pistol at the president.

In 1985, I was put in command of a new undercover unit created to run decoys in the trains, meaning my cops were supposed to dress like victims so we could collar anybody who came after them. I had my pick of personnel, so I chose 12 officers who were smart but had no lives. Those are the people who make the best cops. I banned the traditional ploy of the decoy cop--playing a lone drunk with a dollar hanging from his pocket. I wanted only dedicated predators, so we baited our decoys with imitation Rolex watches and gold chains. Any kid out for a lark might be tempted by a one-dollar bill, but it takes a different type to snap a chain off a man's neck.

Before long, we also abandoned the standard of working in four-member teams. Four cops on a subway car weren't enough to guard all the exits, prevent a standoff or allow us any flexibility when it appeared that the crooks had us made. We could get more done and do it more safely if we all worked together; the trick was figuring out ways to hide eight to ten cops on the last car of a train. On every train, the motorman is stationed in the first car and the conductor in the middle, so any rider interested in smoking pot, drinking or playing loud music headed for the back of the train.

With our numbers, we could afford to sacrifice a couple of members to suspicion. Two cops would each wear the undercover "uniform": a windbreaker or Army jacket, sneakers and a pair of jeans with a pale circle on the rear pocket where handcuffs had worn the denim. Another undercover cop, blasting a boom box and smoking a joint made of Lipton tea leaves, would ridicule them. "Yo--check out Inspector and Mrs. Gadget over here. Gadget, you and the missus ever seen this part of Brooklyn before?" The targets would get ruffled, try a lame comeback, then step off the train at the next stop with the entire car laughing at them. Either that, or they would "arrest" their colleague with the boom box for disorderly conduct and take him off the train with them. Now the remaining predators felt free to turn their attention to our "victim," who'd be slouched over his seat. He'd be easy to pick out: Sometimes we'd stick a conventioneer's name tag on his lapel--Hi! My name is Vic or hi! My name is Herb. Vic is slang for victim, and herb is what street hoods call a potential mark, so the tags were our inside joke. The crooks were always attentive to a target's jewelry, so we made sure they'd find 14K or 18K inscribed on the back of his medallion.

We had a revolving cast of characters--the blind man, the drunken lawyer, the pizzeria worker, the foreign tourist. The best decoys were the ones who played against stereotypes of what cops might be willing to do. I'd be a belligerent gay man sniping with another passenger about some perceived slight. We had mixed-race couples fighting off insults before dozing off in a drunken embrace. I even convinced Billy Courtney, the prettiest guy in the unit, to borrow one of his mother's bras so he could play a hairy-armed transvestite heading home with a nearsighted drunk--anything that helped a predator put aside concerns that one of us might be a police officer. Sometimes they asked us, "Are you guys cops?" and accepted our answer, as if a police officer were bound by oath to tell no lies. Other times we would respond, "Yeah, Macy's Security." Many times we'd answer, "Yeah, we're cops," and roar laughing. But a couple of the humps we collared had no excuse for buying our act: In their pockets they were carrying full-color photos of us that had appeared along with a cover story in New York magazine.

Years of uncreative policing must have taught the crooks to overestimate how much they could get away with, because despite our notoriety, our unit enjoyed a front-row view of the predatory instinct at work. We soon figured out that, at least on the trains, the moment of truth wasn't the best moment to grab a predator. As long as the decoy wasn't in jeopardy, we'd wait until the crook had snatched the victim's gold chain or lifted his wallet and sat back down. Once his adrenaline rush had ended, one of the backup decoys would put a hand on his shoulder and quietly explain that he was under arrest. More often than not, the other predators in the car wouldn't see the arrest because they were fixated on whatever else of value remained on the sleeping decoy--a watch, a wallet, a ring. "Sit back and enjoy the show," we'd whisper to crook number one, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder. After the next crook had made his move and sat down, we'd make another arrest. And the robbing would go on and on. It was an amazing thing to see.

Method Versus Madness

What causes a person to become a criminal? Is it a form of mental illness, or just misguided ambition? For every Rondell Wilkins, a kid who transformed himself by hard work and determination into the king of the turnstile thieves (he wore baby gator shoes and a four-finger gold ring that spelled Transit), there are a few crooks like the members of the Mankiewicz gang. They lived like vampires in windowless black rooms and came out only at night to rob token booths by smashing the bulletproof glass with picks and axes.

I'm convinced madness plays a role in most violent crimes. Each year, countless people are murdered by somebody who thinks he or she has been "dissed." One New Yorker torched her boyfriend on the sofa because of some offhand compliment he paid to a game-show hostess on the television. A few years earlier, a drug king tested his AK-47 on a passing driver whose pickup had inadvertently cut the gangster off at an intersection.

No matter what its cause, a police officer has to respond to crime with relentless, rational effort. Ideally, a cop should know every resident on his beat who is on parole or probation, or who has been arrested at any time for a violent crime. He also should know the restrictions placed on parolees, such as who they can't associate with and where they can't go. This information can be useful if the officer wants to question a parolee or probationer about a crime or search for a weapon.

I'm afraid, however, that there are some things the cops will never know about the criminal mind.

It seems, for example, that a variety of hereditary and environmental factors contribute to an individual's predisposition to criminal or violent behavior, from low serotonin levels in the brain to high testosterone levels in the bloodstream to physical or sexual abuse. If our understanding of these factors were more definitive, we could direct more resources to preventing kids in each generation from turning to crime. Unfortunately, after centuries of nature-versus-nurture debate and impressive advances in brain-imaging technology, the scientific community isn't close to an answer. Instead, it's hunkered down in several camps, each having broken off a piece of the puzzle. Members of each camp devote much of their energy to defending their turf and dismissing the claims of all the other camps. What I'd like to do is ask a group of neurologists, anthropologists, sociologists and psychologists to select a large criminal population and initiate a long-term, comprehensive study that would chart each subject's brain activity and adrenaline, testosterone and serotonin levels. The group also would compile personal histories related to head injuries, animal torture, physical or sexual abuse and other factors. Even if this research could reduce the number of potential criminals by five percent, the change on the streets would be dramatic. Opportunities to steal, rob or kill would still present themselves, but there would be fewer predators to act on them.