When Evil Isn't Enough

As the nose of the patrol car came into view to the left of the two vehicles, the van driver sounded the alarm.

"¡Polecía! ¡Cuidado!"

Everyone froze. "Be cool everyone, it’s no bust," said Carducci. "He’s just looking."

But the cruiser stopped in front of the van and Officer Sebastian stepped out. That was enough for the man with the Uzi. He swept the gun up in front of his body, moving to his left from behind the van. Sebastian saw the movement too late to defend himself. A stream of 9mm slugs tore across his chest throwing him back against the car. Officer Reeves had no time to react as the gunner held the trigger down, pouring a dozen bullets through the car door into the man’s face and chest. He was still holding the mike, and as he was hit, his hand clenched. He died in the same instant the sound of gunfire slammed into the ears of the dispatch operator.

Inside the van, Quintero jerked a Llama 9mm pistol out of the cocaine bag the moment the booming staccato of the Uzi started.

"Be cool, man. . . .," Carducci yelled, as he tried to find the pistol pushed into the waistband of his pants. But Quintero started firing as the pistol cleared the bag. The first bullet slammed into the left side of Carducci’s chest, lifting and turning him toward the rear of the van. Five more slugs plunged into his side and back in less than two seconds. The thunderous impact of the bullets drove Carducci’s body out of the back of the van, the riddled corpse still gripping the briefcase in its left hand.

In the same instant both Colombians started to shoot, Johnny G ducked around the rear end of the BMW, and crouching low, ran down the alley onto 36th Street.

DiCecco dove across the front seat and out the open door on the passenger’s side. As he hit the pavement, the van jerked forward and slammed into the rear of the police car, mashing it into the warehouse wall. The driver reversed the van, then surged out the alley toward 35th Street. The gunner jumped into the rear and emptied his Uzi into the BMW, blasting chunks of metal and glass through the interior out into the alley on the far side of the car.

Seconds later screeching brakes and the blast of car horns sounded on 35th Street.

DiCecco crawled quickly around the back of the BMW. Pino Carducci lay half sitting against the base of the loading dock, eyes staring, lips quivering, blood flowing from his neck and chest. He clung lifelessly to the handle of the briefcase. DiCecco darted to Carducci’s body, pulled the case away from the corpse, and stood ready to run down the alley in the direction Johnny G had taken.

Sirens sounded, their wail bouncing off the walls of the alley, making it impossible to tell which direction they were coming from.

A door opened above him.

"Jesu Cristo!" someone screamed. DiCecco jumped onto the dock and pushed through the door.

"Get the f--- out of the way!" he yelled at two men and a woman crouched just inside the door. He raced through a storeroom into a huge room full of women sitting at what seemed like a thousand sewing machines. A giant wave of screams washed across the factory as DiCecco crashed through the room, smashing slow moving workers out of his way with the bloody briefcase. Just before reaching the front door, he ripped a piece of cloth out of a sewing machine, pausing long enough to wipe Carducci’s blood off the briefcase and his hands. Throwing the fabric aside, he stepped into the street just as two police cars approached the alley, lights flashing and sirens at full blast. Three more cruisers were tearing down 35th Street bouncing like stunt cars on the uneven pavement.

DiCecco turned toward 8th Avenue, trying to hold his pace to a fast walk. As the first police car roared past, he stopped with the other pedestrians to watch the noisy drama in the street. He was careful to keep his bloody cuffs and the briefcase down and slightly behind him. After the last blue and white passed, he ducked across the street, taking advantage of the momentary letup in traffic. He rounded the corner onto 8th continuing to resist the terrible urge to look over his shoulder. Slowing his pace, he walked one block, then ducked down the subway steps to the Red Line.

Twenty minutes later he was in his apartment in Soho. He shaved off his mustache, trimmed his hair with a razor, then took a long shower. After dressing, he stuffed his bloody clothes into a paper bag and tossed it down the incinerator shaft. He had two gulps of vodka and called Hobart Simms. He never called Simms from his apartment, but his time urgency overrode caution.

Within minutes of the shooting, dozens of police cars jammed both ends of the alley behind Fineman’s. News that two policemen had been gunned down in what appeared to be an ambush brought a deluge of police and media. As word of the massacre spread, a huge crowd gathered, creating a traffic nightmare on both 35th and 36th Streets.

Fortunately, the first cops on the scene sealed both ends of the alley as well as the back door of the factory. Unfortunately, they didn’t secure the front door fast enough to keep most of the factory workers from fleeing, or to prevent two newspaper photographers from getting to the second floor windows. They were quickly ejected, but not before taking the picture that would show up on the cover of Newsweek magazine a week later under the banner, "Who Owns the Streets of America?"

In New York, the death of a policeman in the line of duty is treated with the same degree of calamity as an earthquake. As with any disaster, a pre-rehearsed chain of command is activated under the direction of one individual; in this case, someone with the authority to control the scene, start the investigation, and dictate who among the avalanche of people demanding access to the crime scene will be admitted.

In New York in 1985 that man was Stewart Rogan, a 48-year-old career detective whose quiet but persistent rise through the ranks of the police hierarchy placed him in the unenviable role of Chief Homicide Inspector for the entire NYPD.

Officially, his job was to investigate homicides involving police, fire and city employees, detainees in city jails, or witnesses in protective custody. To Rogan, there was another, unofficial but equally important task: to maintain pressure on higher-ups to back their rhetorical respect for the police with the tools and support needed to stay even with organized crime. His complete lack of fear either of criminals or city officials (an interchangeable lot, he used to say) allowed him to wear both hats comfortably. In spite of his cynicisms, he got along relatively well with most of the city brass, particularly so with New York’s recently appointed Commissioner of Police, Winston Clevenger.

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