More than thirty years ago, Tom Walker published Fort Apache: New York's Most Violent Precinct, introducing the world to the 4-1, a South Bronx precinct that was home to more murders than the entire city of San Francisco. To this day, his story about life as police lieutenant in the 4-1 precinct remains the definitive account of the vicious cycle of violence that griped urban America in the late twentieth century.

The battle between criminals and law enforcement did not end in 1971, but massive controversy over the book's publication precluded the release of a sequel-until now. With Return to Fort Apache: Memoir of an NYPD Captain, Walker finally tells the rest of his fascinating life story.

Return to Fort Apache was written to counter the prevailing politically correct opinion that the officers in Fort Apache used their weapons first and their wits last. In addition, Walker hopes to memorialize the courageous officers he served with in the 4-1, to remember forever their sacrifices, their courage, and their daily brushes with death and violence.

RETURN TO FORT APACHE

Memoir of an NYPD CaptainBy TOM WALKER

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Tom Walker
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-2049-2

Chapter One

On May 21, 1971, the same day Police Officers Piagentini and Jones were assassinated in the 32nd Precinct in Harlem, I arrived at the Four-one Precinct as a newly promoted lieutenant.

I got lucky and was able to take the civil service test for captain shortly thereafter. I scored well and was promoted to captain in August of 1972. The Police Commission decided that I needed a change of venue.

My move to the Five-O, in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, meant a jump back. It was peaceful; its streets wound around the hills that make the Hudson so beautiful, and in the summer, trees shrouded the sidewalk with cool shade. I left the South Bronx I had come to love, the Bronx of many textured faces, streets swollen with life, throbbing with voices, change jangling in pockets, shoes moving to the next exciting block.

The last time I saw the Four-one, few people recognized me. I did not find that fact troublesome. I rested easily in my guise as policeman. And I felt there was nothing in the past at the Four-one that should cause me foreboding. My job was done in this special hell. I simply came back to pick up my last paycheck. Parking was still tough, but I managed to find a spot near the stationhouse. As in the past two summers, the heat lay everywhere and only the young showed signs of energy as they romped through open hydrants. I dodged them and the cars that stood on stilts made of metal milk crates. Rust seemed to be the only timepiece suited for this neighborhood – rust and occasional blotches of blood. I tried but I could not ignore Simpson Street.

Across from the Fort, a small group of excited people gathered. They lacked the boisterousness that marked many crowds. A patrolman named Bill Smyth stood among them, unthreatened. In the center of the crowd lay a three-year-old boy. He had apparently fallen from a fifth-floor window and been impaled on the prongs of a wrought iron fence. When I arrived, he still struggled to free himself, but it was too late.

How it happened, no one will know. Faces always lined these windows, watching the precinct. I had probably seen this kid a hundred times, I thought, as Bill Smyth and the ambulance attendant carefully extricated him and placed him on a stretcher. I stood there, taller than most of the crowd. The sun reddened my complexion and didn't tan it. I was very separate from these people. Yet, after these two years, I sensed we were very much the same. But I could take that one step back. Most of them would never be given a similar chance.

I went into the precinct house and collected my last check. Goodbyes. All around me were goodbyes. Then I walked back into the street and the sun and the sound of people. When I got into my car, I paused for a moment. And then I thought of that child who smiled so readily, who sought the same sun and heard the same voices, and then I felt the wetness on my cheek. For a moment, I sat and listened to the street, knowing I would always hear it, and then I turned on the ignition and drove away.

From the most violent precinct in the city, I had been sent to one of the safest. My wife, Mary, appreciated it more than I did.

Most cops who work in high hazard precincts or units pay a high psychological price for such duty. Because of the requirement to be mentally alert at all times while on duty, it may take hours after a tour to reach homeostasis. Once that equilibrium with one's environment is secured, you're just a regular guy or gal again. However, over an extended period of such exposure, combat fatigue sets in and you're always ready for a fight.

Eventually, the department realized the detrimental effect of this process and started a rotation plan to counter the problem.

As a newly promoted captain, I entered a new world; a world of internal politics, coalitions and intrigue. All promotions above captain in the Police Department are made solely at the discretion of the Police Commissioner. There are no written tests to pass as with the ranks of sergeant, lieutenant, and captain. The test for those higher ranks are subjective ones. Only time can teach one how to swim in those waters. Hopefully, one will not drown while learning.

The C.O. of the 50th Precinct was Jack Bonner, a short man with a Napoleonic complex. As a new captain, I vowed myself to silence in hope of learning all the prevailing currents. Jack had a direct line to the commissioner and didn't hesitate to use it if someone got in his way. My democratic style of leadership was constantly scraping against his authoritative approach. His promotion and transfer were welcomed.

Headquarters selected a captain name Tim O'Shea as the new C.O. Tim was a tall, slim, handsome Irishman whose style contrasted dramatically with that of Bonner. Tim was calm and controlled under the worst conditions. He would listen quietly, absorb what was said, and then extract what was practical. He was a joy to work with – a real professional.

In the relaxed and verdant reaches of the Northwest Bronx, my mind shifted to more creative pursuits – I started to write jokes. When P.O. Mario Caturo, a Bronx borough aide, would call to give me my Duty Captain assignments (cover the borough at night, respond to shootings etc, investigate and write a report), I would try my jokes out on him. Some were actually funny. All were about borough bosses. Mario, who like me, enjoyed throwing gentle barbs, invited me to do a short routine at the Bronx borough Christmas/promotion party.

Then, another writing proposal gained currency in my consciousness. I figured that if Dennis Smith could write a book, "Engine Company 82", about firemen in the South Bronx, why couldn't I write a book about the cops at Fort Apache. And so began another journey down an uncharted and bumpy road.

Ray Mc Dermott was the Bronx Borough Commander. An Irishman with a thick, hard to understand brogue, he was tough, straight-forward, knew the streets and was a good boss to work for – the troops loved him.

However, shortly after Tim O'Shea came to the 50th Precinct, McDermott was replaced by Tony Bouza. McDermott was on the "old" team. Police Commissioner Cawley was conducting a purge of senior, conservative commanders in favor of younger, more progressive types.

Tony Bouza, born in Spain, was over 6 feet 4 inches tall, slim and had strong features. He came to the Bronx with a tough reputation; he detested incompetence. Groomed in the Planning and Inspections Divisions, he was known to carry an ever-ready and sharp hatchet.

There was a full house at that year's promotion party held at Steve's Castle Harbor restaurant. Steve served the best pork and sauerkraut you ever tasted. I hoped that my roast would be as well done. Among the more than 200 cops and bosses present were Sidney Cooper (of Serpico fame), Bouza and McDermott.

Mario Caturo introduced me, "Captain Walker would like to say a few words." I had each joke written out on a separate piece of paper, arranged in the hope that my first joke was the best. I fixed the mike. There was a buzz in the room (not for me – people just kept talking). A little acting was called for. I raised my voice and commanded, "Would you please lower the volume. I have an important announcement to make." I had their attention.

"The first thing I'd like to do tonight is to clear up an issue that has caused some consternation here in the Bronx. There's been a lot of speculation that the only reason Chief Bouza has replaced Chief McDermott is that Bouza speaks Spanish. That is just not true. The real reason is that McDermott doesn't speak English." There was a tremendous roar of laughter. If I could read lips, I think McDermott was saying, "You Son of a Bitch." And then he burst out into laughter.

I crumpled up the paper and threw it into the audience. An old Italian cop picked it up. This caused another outburst. We all figured he might be collecting evidence against me. Bouza was chuckling. I yelled to him, "Hey Tony, I love those little cotton balls on strings hanging from the rear window of your car" (a prevalent decoration in the South Bronx) – more laughter and so it went. I'd crumple the joke, throw it and the old cop would pick it up. Later, he facetiously told me, "I'm an ex-plainclothesman, never let Sidney Cooper get your handwriting sample." I smiled. Sidney was a feared "ubermenchen." And that's how I met my life-long friend, Lou Palumbo. Lou had somehow morphed from undercover cop into the Bronx borough messenger (He delivered the department mail to police headquarters and picked up all department mail for the Bronx).

Over the years, I learned a few things about doing these borough roasts:

One – There's a thin line between funny and mean. Keep it funny.

Two – All jokes must be about bosses.

Three – No matter how hard you try, some bosses are going to get pissed.

I decided to forget the jokes for a while and concentrated on writing about my adventures in Fort Apache.

Chief Bouza was busy too. It wasn't long before several precinct commanders felt the quick movements of Tony's hatchet and departed. Chief Bouza was a great believer in the axiom that a good staff makes a good C.O. He therefore gave precinct C.O.s an opportunity to get rid of their executive captains if they so desired. The only C.O. in the Bronx who took advantage of the offer was Brendan O'Sullivan, C.O. of the 43rd Precinct. Brendan's executive Captain was transferred and it was decided that I would replace him. I hated to leave Tim O'Shea and the men in the 5-0, but I wasn't consulted. I had a hunch that the reason was a bad joke.

A final goodbye was offered in the 50th Pct. newsletter. In addition, the 3rd paragraph outlined what I considered my major accomplishment as the 5-0's executive captain.

50th PRECINCT NEWSLETTER

No. 16 DATE: July 11, 1973

A FOND FARWELL: To Captain THOMAS WALKER, who will long be remembered by the many friends he made in the 50th ...... and a cordial welcome to our new Exec. Captain THOMAS HEFFERMAN, we hope his stay with us is rewarding.

COMMENDATORY LETTERS: A letter for P.O SCANLON and FENNY, for showing sympathy and understanding while handling a D.O.A......for P.O. GRENITO for being courteous when helping the public ... for P.O. POUST and NAPOLITANO, for their handling of lost children case..... for LEMOLE and SPAROCINO for their handling of the accident case.....and for SGT. PIAZZA and P.O. HANNIGAN from the P.T.A. for the continued attention during the school year. And finally, to LT Gregor for sticking up for the late tour crew- no D.O.A.'s for them.

THE 50 SOFTBALL TEAM: Won their first (and hopefully not last) game of the season last week, beating the 34th Pct. 9 to 8. In the first inning P.O. PFEIFFER hit a tremendous homerun driving in two runs. The 34 battled back and finally took and 8 to 5 lead, but P.O. SAYRE who was tired of being the losing pitcher hit a three run homer and tied the score.

The 34 was still confident of victory until the 50 coach put in our secret weapon, CAPTAIN THOMAS (FLASH) WALKER. The captain came up with two out in the ninth and the 34 pitcher promptly walked "Flash." P.O. Smaller hit a ground ball that went through for a single, and the captain was off and running. To the surprise of everyone the captain didn't stop at second, nor did he stop at third, and he rounded the bag and headed home. The 34 shortstop realizing what was happening threw the ball home as "Flash" headed down the line. The 34 catcher fearing a line of duty death, promptly let a perfect throw go through his legs as the captain scored the winning run.

I was moving one step closer to the Four-one Precinct. The Bronx had 3 divisions, the 7th, 8th and 9th, each with its own radio frequency. I was moving back from the 9th Division to the 8th Division which covered the 41st, 43rd and 45th Precincts.

Chapter Two

Brendan O'Sullivan was on the ropes in the 43rd Precinct. His crime statistics, although improving, were poor. Brendan was schooled in Ireland and still spoke with a brogue. He had spent many years in Internal Affairs fighting corruption before it became a popular thing to do. A fighter by nature, Brendan had once told me, "I always go for the jugular." A crafty politician himself, he quickly made friends of the politicians in the area. The most prominent being John Calandra, the local State Senator.

The biggest problem in the precinct was the robberies in Parkchester, a huge housing complex owned and operated by the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company. My mother, Kathryn, lived there at the time, right across from the precinct on McGraw Avenue. You can imagine my dismay when she was hit in the face multiple times and robbed in her building lobby by some punk. My father would turn over in his grave if I didn't catch the bastard.

I immediately instituted vertical building patrols, using my anticrime team in all buildings, but concentrating on perimeter locations. Parkchester had a competent security force, but the perimeter buildings were especially vulnerable because they provided quick escape routes.

A month later, my anti-crime team arrested a 25 year old male for another robbery. It was my guy. It ameliorated my anger, but better than most, I knew the true cost. It didn't heal my mother's facial wounds or lessen her newly developed fear of crime, but it did satisfy her sense of justice. Sadly, that would have to be enough.

Although O'Sullivan constantly promoted anti-corruption practices, the precinct hadn't made a bribery collar in over 4 years (In fairness, he'd been the C.O. for only five months).

I decided to make an offer to the troops that they couldn't refuse. So, I announced at several roll calls that anyone making a bribery collar would not only get a day off, but would also be entitled to a weekend at O'Sullivan's Long Beach cottage.

It didn't take long. P.O. Cole brought in an 80 year old Italian man who offered him 50 dollars to overlook the running of a red light and his driving without a license. We all cringed. The gentleman told us, in broken English, that he had been driving in the Bronx without a license for 50 years and that this was the first time he had been stopped. I told Officer Cole to request that a family member respond to the precinct A.S.A.P. and that he should expedite the man's arrest procedure. I felt more than a little guilty, and like most acquired guilt, I wanted the source summarily removed. P.O. Cole wasn't happy either – he took some unmerciful kidding from his buddies. His response – he accepted the day off, but declined the weekend at the shore.

In spite of all the political intrigue that was going on in the 43rd Precinct, it wasn't lost on the borough command that a nasty and bloody war was going on the South Bronx, which included the lower sectors of the 4-3. I knew better than most what was happening because I was catching an unusual number of Duty Captain assignments. Mario Caturo assured me that he was only the messenger, but that certain parties wanted me to pull extra duties. I wondered if their intent was to keep me from helping O'Sullivan stabilize the 4-3 Precinct, which would soon be designated as a high hazard precinct. What does that mean? It means, "Hey guys and gals, don't forget to wear your bulletproof vests." (The problem was we didn't have vests at that time).

On September 17, 1973, I decided to stop at the Four-one after my 9 to 5 tour to say hello to Moe DeVito. I was jolted to discover that a major assault was being launched against the Black Liberation Army (BLA) at 1803 Bryant Avenue, a block away from where actress Ellen Barkin had grown up.

The Duty Captain, Terry Cosgrove was behind the desk. "Hey Walker," he moaned, "If something is going down, it's either you or me catching the duty."

"It's a short, very special list we're on Terry"

Terry handed me a portable radio attuned to the assault team's frequency. We sat at the muster room desk monitoring that radio and the 8th Division radio frequency. I didn't know it then, but I would later be designated to write the required Interim Order 118 report to the Firearms Discharge Board evaluating the assault team's performance.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from RETURN TO FORT APACHEby TOM WALKER Copyright © 2011 by Tom Walker. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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