Exceptional Merit (5 page)

He got into his 1991 Chevrolet Caprice Classic which was parked closer to Second Avenue than to Third.  He turned the key and the car slowly rumbled to life.  After allowing the car to warm up for about two minutes, he turned the heat up to full blast and began to thaw out.  The man looked in the rear view mirror to see the two males were still in the same location he had last seen them.  They obviously had no interest in bothering him, he realized.  The man then threw the car into gear and drove away as he reflected on
everything that he had witnessed.

*****************************

Louis Castillo was an eight-year veteran of the New York City Police Department.  He was not an imposing figure, standing five feet eight inches tall.  He had a
n average frame, with dark, wavy hair and a thin mustache; he wore black wire-framed glasses.  Castillo walked with a slight limp, which served as a reminder of his early days on the job.

Castillo, only two months removed from his training at the Police Academy was assigned to a Field Training Unit in Brooklyn North.  That particular area in Brooklyn had one of the highest crime rates in the entire city.  It had been a muggy August night and Castillo, like most rookies that night, was assigned to a foot post.  He diligently patrolled his beat along Knickerbocker Avenue careful to walk around the puddles which remained behind from the earlier thunderstorms.  The smell in the air reminded him of a wet dog.  It was an uncomfortable evening to be walking a foot post.  He could see the steam rise from underneath his bulletproof vest as he pulled it away from his body at the collar, allowing it to air out.

His post was only six blocks long, although he was by regulations, allowed to walk one half block up each side street.  It wasn’t a large area and became boring most nights but Castillo didn’t mind.  He reminded himself that in another month or so cooler weather would be here and in another three months, he would be assigned to his permanent command, where he wouldn’t be walking a foot post every night.  He’d be in a radio car answering jobs and making a difference.  Castillo walked his post, looking for parking infractions so he could issue summonses, as his training Sergeant has instructed him to do.  He walked from one end of his post to the other dozens of times a night.  Castillo nodded hello to the same group of young men he saw every night.  They were in their teens or early twenties and were always respectful of Castillo.  He knew they were out there selling crack cocaine but he wasn’t sure how he knew that or how to catch them.  Some nights he’d ask them to leave, others he’d ignore them.  They would usually leave on their own if Castillo stood on the same corner as them, only to reappear once he left.

At 2000 hours, the adjoining foot post went to meal.  Castillo welcomed this every night.  He now had to cover the adjoining foot post as well.  The additional six blocks was a welcomed change of scenery.  He would normally spend the majority of that hour on the other post and then at 2100, he would go to meal.  As he walked the additional six block post, he stumbled onto an armed robbery in progress; he noticed a man with a gun holding up a liquor store.  Castillo’s heart began to race.  His training Sergeant had instructed them time and time again not to take any police action when they were by themselves unless it was absolutely necessary.  They were instructed to call their adjoining foot post over the point to point feature of their radio.

Realizing he was alone, he took cover behind a parked car.  He had immediately called for backup over his portable radio, but the backup didn't get there soon enough.  Castillo had watched the perp complete the robbery, fearing that if he tried to intervene right then it could cost the store clerk his life.  As the armed robber exited the store, Castillo, who was still alone, jumped into action.  “Police. Don't move!”

He had his .38 caliber revolver trained on the gunman.  Instead of complying with the officer's orders, the man fled on foot with Castillo in immediate pursuit.  The man had taken only about five steps before whirling on Castillo with his nine millimeter handgun and opening fire.  Castillo had returned fire as a hail of bullets littered the air.  Castillo had been struck twice and could barely put the 10-13 radio code over the air.  He fell backwards into a puddle in the gutter, between two parked cars.

He remembers the first radio cars on the scene frantically yelling, “10-13, COP SHOT!” before lifting him into the radio car and taking him to Jamaica Hospital.  Lying on his side in the back seat of the radio car, Castillo could hear the frantic yelling on the radio.  It was just noise to him; he couldn’t make out what was being said.  He explored his chest with his hands, unsure if the round had pieced his vest or if the Kevlar held up.  He felt himself drifting into a state of shock.

Castillo will never forget the feeling of the impact when the bullet had struck him in the chest.   Although it was stopped by his bullet-proof vest, it had knocked the wind out of him and hurt pretty badly.  But it was the shot which had shattered his right kneecap that would continue to torture him.  The pain was excruciating.  He had unfortunately learned how painful having your kneecap blown apart was.  It wasn't until the next day, after the surgery, that Castillo had learned the perp had died of the gunshot wounds that he’d sustained during the gunfight.

The therapy had been a slow and often painful process.  After eight months, Castillo was put back on full duty.  Castillo had been offered a three-quarters retirement—something desirable to many police officers (as long as they were not too seriously injured to enjoy it, of course).  A tax-free pension is often quite lucrative.  However, Castillo wanted no part of a disability pension.  He worked as hard as anyone, and harder than most at his physical therapy.  He was a cop and that is what he wanted to remain.  His goal was to continue to be the best cop he could, for as long as he could.

Once back to full duty, Castillo had been assigned to his permanent command in a Brooklyn North stationhouse. 
The precinct that he had been assigned was always among the leaders in homicides and shootings, year after year.  Castillo was happy to stay in Brooklyn North; that's where the action was.  Many of his friends from his training unit were hoping to get to a Queens precinct as their permanent command, since so many of them lived on Long Island.  Some of them had even told him he was crazy for wanting to stay in Brooklyn.

“You were shot,” they would tell him
.  “You’re a hero.  The job will give you your choice of commands.  Why not go somewhere quiet?  You’ve already paid your dues…more than most of us will.”

“Brooklyn is what being a cop is all about,” he'd argued.  “This is where the people need the most protection.  Go ahead guys, be Queens Marines.  I'm staying right here.”

Over the next three years, Castillo impressed both other cops and supervisors alike.  He made stellar arrest after stellar arrest, ending up with more arrests than anyone else in the precinct.  That included the arrest oriented, Anti Crime cops.  He had made numerous gun and robbery arrests—exactly what any commanding officer would most take note of.  He had even
affected a bribery arrest after some drug dealer offered him two thousand dollars to forget about the seventy-four vials of crack cocaine he had in his pocket.

Castillo's commanding officer was so impressed by his integrity and arrest record that he’d appointed him into the precinct's Anti-Crime team.  This had always been Castillo's ambition.  He knew that after about two or three years in Anti-Crime, he could move on to a precinct robbery unit, detective squad, or a narcotics division.  Either way, he knew his appointment to Anti-Crime was the stepping stone to what police officers referred to as the
gold shield
…a detective’s shield.  What Castillo didn't know at the time was that his appointment to Anti-Crime would get him his gold shield a lot sooner than he expected.  It would also crush his ambitions and put his career on a completely different path.

One of Castillo's partners in Anti-Crime was Mark Hutter.  Hutter carried the reputation of an aggressive cop, who had made numerous quality arrests of his own.  He was a tough street cop, who few of the bad guys on the street were willing to challenge.   A reputation goes an awful long way on the streets, good or bad.  You didn't actually have to be that tough on people, as long as you had the reputation that you were.  Castillo knew, as did all of the other cops in the precinct, of Hutter's reputation, but it wasn't until they were on patrol together in Anti-Crime that Castillo would find out why he earned that reputation.

A cool October night had netted them a gun collar.  In Castillo's opinion, it also ended his career as a police officer—at least the type of police officer he wanted to be.  The call was for a man with a gun on Utica Avenue and Linden Boulevard.  He was a black male in his late teens, wearing blue jeans, a St. Louis Cardinals jersey and a red baseball cap, the radio reported.  Castillo and Hutter pulled up to the scene and exited their unmarked auto to stop the male in question.  Seeing the officers’ approach, the young man began to flee on foot, throwing a Davis Industries .380 caliber hand gun to the ground as he ran.  Castillo stopped to recover the gun
before it grew legs
, while Hutter continued to chase the male on foot.  Hutter had cornered the perp in an alleyway as Castillo arrived on the scene.  Hutter barked at the teen, “Who the fuck do you think you are running from, motherfucker!?”

“Yo Gee, word to God, I didn't know it was you, man…I swear, Hutter.”

The teen was clearly terrified of his fate and tried to explain away his actions.  He continually licked his lips and apologized to the agitated officer.

Castillo observed as Hutter took a blackjack out from his back pocket.

“Let's just cuff him up, Mark, I got the gun.”

Castillo also sensed the intensity of the situation and was hoping to diffuse it.

Apparently unmoved by his partner’s plea, Hutter stared menacingly at the youth, slowly walking toward him.  “Maybe you should pay for making me chase you, asshole.  You know what the run rule is, don’t you, boy?”

Hutter was now taunting the teen as he menacingly slapped his own hand with his blackjack.  “If you run, you best pray you don’t get caught because if you do…,” added Hutter as he shook his head slowly.

The teen backed up against the alley's wall and with the look of a cornered animal in his eyes, saw he had no apparent way out.  Castillo looked on; unsure what was going to happen or what he should do at this point.  He made one final effort to deescalate the situation.  He placed the recovered gun in his own waistband and reached for his cuffs.

“I’ll cuff him up, Mark,” Castillo said, but it was too late.

The youth, in obvious self preservation, clenched his fist as tightly as he could and punched Hutter in the face, just as Hutter had raised his blackjack over his head.  The youth tried to run, but his attempt was in vain.  He was met with Hutter’s blackjack.  Hutter rained blows down upon the male’s skull with his blackjack until he collapsed to the ground in a fetal position, protecting his head.  There was now a decent amount of blood seeping from the open lacerations that would eventually take over a dozen stitches to close.

Castillo raced over to not only to handcuff the youth but also to save him from further injury, as he had seen a wild look in Hutter's eyes. There was no mistake about it, Castillo had witnessed firsthand why Hutter had earned the nickname of Hutter the
hit man.  Hutter then kicked the teen square in the face, splitting his lip wide open, just for good measure.

Castillo looked over at Hutter in disbelief as Hutter boasted, “Another asshole who wanted a shot at the title.”

Castillo will always remember how Hutter had bullied this kid that he outweighed by about a hundred pounds into a street fight with him, how the kid had been lying there in a pool of blood and Hutter was saying how if they wrote the reports up correctly, they would get a medal.  Castillo was sick to his stomach.  He was outraged at Hutter's brutal behavior.

He had read Hutter's arrest report, which told a very different story from the one that Castillo had witnessed.  The report detailed how Hutter had chased the armed youth into an alley.  Once in the alley, the youth pulled the gun from his waist and started to turn on Hutter, who quickly disarmed him by striking him over the head with his portable department issued radio.  He further explained how once he saw the male turn on him with a gun in his
hand; it was too late to go for his own gun.  So fearing for his life, he struck the male with the portable radio and disarmed him.  The entire incident had greatly disturbed Castillo, but he was unsure what he could possibly do about it.  He didn't want to get one of his partners in trouble, but he had sworn to himself that he would never let Hutter, or anybody else bully and brutalize somebody like that ever again.

It was later on that evening that Castillo made the decision which he would regret for the rest of his career as a New York City police officer.  Castillo wrote the Commanding Officer an anonymous letter detailing the incident and slipped it under his door.  It was at roll call the next day, that the label of a rat was first cast upon Castillo.   A cop would refer to another cop as a rat if he had broken the blue wall of silence and snitched on another cop.  There was nothing lower than a rat in the police department. If enough people believed the label, it could follow you around your entire career.