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 WALKERiUniverse, 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...
