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On the Edge
On the Edge
On the Edge
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On the Edge

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On The Edge is the story of two Chicago cops, the investigative reporter they've teamed up with, and their investigation into the seamy world of drugs, politics and corruption.


Written by a real cop, you'll be introduced to the investigative and surveillance techniques used to crack open the case, and you'll see just how close to the edge they must operate to get the job done.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAuthorHouse
Release dateJun 28, 2002
ISBN9781403321169
On the Edge
Author

Daniel V. Schranger

Daniel Schrager was a member of the Chicago Police Department for twenty-eight years, retiring at the rank of Lieutenant in 1998. During his career, he worked as a patrol officer in the Cabrini-Green housing project, spent eight years as a vice officer in the Rush Street entertainment area, and three years as a sergeant in a special unit created by then-mayor Jane Byrne to investigate misconduct in the Chicago Transit Authority, and several years as a patrol sergeant and lieutenant. During his last five years on the Department, he was the Acting Watch Commander in the 24th Patrol District. F or eighteen months, in an unofficial capacity, he assisted as a bodyguard and driver for a mayoral candidate during a re-election bid. Prior to joining the Chicago Police Department, he served fourteen months in Vietnam assigned to the First Infantry Division, including the period of the Tet offensive in 1968. Daniel Schrager is also the author of The Code, published in August 2000, available through 1stBooks and other sources. He currently resides in Prescott, Arizona, where he is working on his latest book.

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    On the Edge - Daniel V. Schranger

    Contents

    Chicago 1990

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    About The Author

    To those who read the manuscript and offered criticism and support: my wife Sheila, my brother Herb, and my friend and fellow cop Bill Curry. Thanks for the help.

    And to the Chicago police officers with whom I worked during my career. May St. Jude protect them.

    CHICAGO 1990

    CHAPTER 1

    It was the lead story on the ten o’clock news: More violence erupted tonight in the Wicker Park area as an on-going drug war continued to extract its grisly toll. Here with a special report, live from the scene, is Caroline Cody.

    The reporter stood before the minicam, and a cold wind whipped her hair. The flashing lights of the massed emergency vehicles bathed her face in blues, reds and whites.

    "Three persons died tonight in a hail of bullets fired from a passing car, raising to six the number killed in recent weeks. Witnesses tell me that none of the three had any connection with the drug traffic rampant in this neighborhood or with the gangs that control it.

    Tonight’s incident is only the latest episode in what has become one of Chicago’s most severe problems: the wholesale violence associated with the drug trade and the cold-blooded murder of innocents caught in the crossfire.

    Caroline turned slightly, and the camera swung to include the man standing at her side. "Police Superintendent Jack Mahoney is here with me now.

    Superintendent Mahoney, what is your reaction to this shooting?"

    I’m horrified, of course. When drug dealers begin to take over the streets of our city making them unsafe for average citizens, it’s time to take a stand, Mahoney said, his voice grim.

    Effective immediately, I’m ordering that the entire Intelligence Section of the Chicago Police Department direct one hundred per cent of its efforts against the major drug organizations operating in our city.

    That’s certainly welcome news, Superintendent, but isn’t the Intelligence Section understrength?

    Mahoney’s eyes flicked down at Caroline Cody, then quickly back to the camera. By tomorrow morning the unit will be fully manned; I guarantee it, he said, a slight edge to his voice.

    Half-way across the city, Ray Warren and his partner, Billy Butcher, sat at opposite ends of the couch in Warren’s living room and listened as the superintendent outlined his plans.

    The two cops, twenty year veterans of the Chicago Police Department, had been partners in the Detective Division for the past five years. They were the kind of cops bosses love to hate: love because they excelled in their job far beyond the standard; hate because there was no rule too small for them to bend or break.

    They listened as Caroline Cody’s interview with Mahoney ended with his announcement of an eleven A.M. news conference at police headquarters the following morning.

    Warren levered himself up from the couch, moving with an easy grace. He pushed his sandy hair back from his forehead and turned toward the kitchen. Another beer?

    Sure; we got nothin’ special to do tomorrow, Butcher said, shifting his two hundred and fifty pounds into a more comfortable position and scratching at the heavy, dark stubble of beard that had accumulated since his morning shave.

    Crossing the line into middle age hadn’t extracted too great a toll on either man. Ray Warren still looked like he could swim for Southern Cal, his clear blue eyes centered in an unlined face; and it wasn’t hard to imagine Billy Butcher anchoring his high school football line, square jaw thrust into the middle of the action.

    The telephone rang as Warren returned from the refrigerator. He tossed Butcher his can of beer and scooped up the receiver. The conversation was short, and when he hung up, Ray raised his beer in a toast, a broad grin splitting his face.

    Hey partner, guess who’s detailed to the Intelligence Section?

    * * *

    At nine-fifteen the next morning Ray Warren and Billy Butcher pulled up in front of 934 West Maxwell Street.

    The two-story building had been standing since 1888, and its dirty red brick and worn stone steps attested to its claim as the oldest building in use by the Chicago Police Department. Cut into the gray stone blocks that framed the doorway was the legend, "7TH

    DISTRICT"-a leftover from the building’s original construction more than a century before.

    The old 7TH had closed many years before, and the building was now home to most of the Organized Crime Section. A small sign was propped against the front double doors: CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC

    Where you gonna park? Warren asked. We’re already late.

    Butcher looked around; all the spots in front of the building were filled. Across the street was a grassy field surrounded by a chain link fence. Instead of a sidewalk, pavement marked with yellow parking stripes ran along the side of the fence facing Maxwell Street. Rectangular metal signs were hung from the chain link reserving the spots for the various commanders who worked in the building. Butcher swung into the only open spot.

    Crossing the street, they took the steps two at a time and pushed open the heavy door.

    Everything about the building was old and worn. The wooden stairs and floors showed a century’s use, the tread of millions of footsteps having worn shallow troughs into the slats of wood. Uncounted coffee spills gave the floor a rich patina punctuated by the sharp scars of cigarette burns, and the walls were painted a pale green that brought to mind dead bodies and pond scum.

    Over the years frosted glass globes had replaced the gas lights, and had themselves been replaced more recently by ugly fluorescent fixtures that hung suspended from the high ceilings like a collection of fossilized pre-historic birds. Cheap white metal fans spinning around and around reflecting light and emitting a low hum created a dizzying stroboscopic effect that soon had one sinking into a vortex of disorientation that stripped the brain of conscious thought. This was the headquarters of the Chicago Police Department’s Intelligence Section.

    Butcher opened the door at the head of the steps and walked into the cubbyhole office. In it was a gray metal desk, gray metal filing cabinets, a gray desk chair and Nikki Powell, the Intelligence Section secretary.

    She was wearing a canary-yellow oversize sweatshirt that barely covered the curve of her buttocks. Below the edge of the sweatshirt her long, slim legs were crossed and offered for inspection. She smiled up at the two cops and twirled a long lock of auburn hair around a slim finger.

    Butcher stopped short, staring. I’m Billy Butcher. Would you mind if I suck on your knee?

    Nikki giggled. It’s okay to look, but don’t touch. Shifting her attention, she said, I’m Nikki; you must be Ray Warren. Go on in; they’re waiting for you.

    Warren pushed open the door and propelled Butcher into a larger office.

    In it were six people; all looked at the two newcomers with appraising eyes. One of them detached himself from the others and walked across the room.

    I’m Lieutenant Paul Gantry; welcome to Intelligence. Gantry was one of the new breed of ascetic young supervisors filling the ranks of the Department. Still in his thirties, tall, painfully thin from a regimen of jogging and diet, he could recite the General Orders backwards and forwards. Beyond that, he was of little use. Gantry introduced the rest of the squad.

    The first was Sergeant Bruno Nardi, the exact opposite of Gantry. A stocky, dark Italian in his late forties, he had worked his way through a number of tough assignments. A street cop who didn’t worry too much about orders and directives, he knew all the players, where to find them and what to do with them when he did.

    The next two were Jake McDonnell and Rick Morris. Fifteen years on the job, they had an air of competence about them. They would know how to do their jobs quietly and efficiently while blending into the background.

    The last two were a real pair.

    Camilla Cookie Lavetti was thirty years old and had muscles where most men only dreamed of them. She had made love to exactly one man in her life, married him thirteen years before, and raised three kids in the happiest marriage she could imagine. The tough broad image she projected at work was so different from her real self that she was fondly tagged with the moniker of Cookie Monster.

    Her partner was Moses Hardiman, a slightly overweight black cop who tended toward baggy suits and cheap cigars. Hardiman was famous for two things: under those baggy suits he carried a matched set of .357’s, and his dick was so long it had been called "Mose’s staff’ ever since his high school days. He’d put both to good use during his thirty years on the job.

    After the introductions were completed, Gantry turned Butcher and Warren over to Sergeant Nardi for the grand tour.

    Walking toward the tall wood-framed windows that covered the entire north wall of the office, Nardi began. Rule One: Never park in the Commander’s spot. He looked out the window and saw the car. Son-of-a-bitch!

    Uh, Sarge, Butcher interrupted.

    Nardi scowled, then sighed and shook his head. That’s a great start. Go move the car.

    When Butcher returned, Warren and Nardi were still at the windows. Nardi pointed to the northeast where, sprawled out for almost a square mile, the campus of the University of Illinois glistened in the cold air.

    Rule Two: Don’t be fucking around with any of the University students. Those are little girls over there regardless of what they look like. That university bulldozed entire neighborhoods out of existence and destroyed the Maxwell Street Market to make room for itself; it won’t think twice about rolling over you.

    After showing them around the remainder of the office, Nardi sat them down next to his desk.

    "Rule Three: You draw an undercover car-get the keys from Nikki. Use it to and from work and anything work-related. Otherwise the car stays parked. You got it? You go drinking, you park the car. You’re off on the week-end, you park the car. You fuck up, you get slammed. No excuses.

    "That’s all the rules. You met the squad; this is our office. The whole second floor is Intelligence. First floor is Vice Control and Analysis, except the

    Narcotics’ Unit. They have their own place over at 36th and Normal. We specialize in narcotics’ intelligence; they make the street pinches. It’s a pretty good system. Questions?"

    Neither Warren nor Butcher had any.

    Good. I’m going to run down the file on a subject we have an interest in. This stuff all came from other files and law enforcement personnel; no street work has been done on this guy yet. It’s going to be all yours, so pay attention.

    Ray Warren and Billy Butcher settled back as Nardi picked up the file and opened it to the first page.

    The suspect is known as El Bano-that’s Spanish for ‘the bath.’ He held up his hand. "I’ll explain later. His real name is Jose Luis Mogalon Portillo, but El Bano is easier.

    "He was born in Matamoros, Mexico where he hustled drugs and other contraband into the local prison until a guard shook him down for too much of his profits. The guard was found with his throat slashed the same day El Bano crossed the border to Brownsville, Texas. He was involved in every petty crime on the books until they ran him out of town about ten years ago. That’s when he came to Chicago.

    "El Bano’s a real attractive guy: male, white-Hispanic, twenty-seven years old, five foot seven, around two hundred and forty pounds. He’s the leader of a biker gang that specializes in dealing cocaine and amphetamines. They also do high profile burglaries, mostly in the suburbs. The gang consists of about twenty members, male and female, and their total take is in excess of fifty thousand dollars a week.

    El Bano is known to be bi-sexual but rarely engages in sex because he has one very strange hangup: he never bathes. That’s how he got his nickname. The only time he goes in water is during a burglary where there’s a swimming pool. His favorite trick is to jump in the pool and defecate.

    He shits in the pool?

    "Yeah, Butcher, he shits in the pool. While he strips off his leathers the gang chants, ‘el Bano! el Bano!’ until he jumps in the water and leaves his little calling card.

    When he’s moving around his turf in Wicker Park he rides a ninety cc Honda. His ass hangs half-way to the ground over the edges of the seat, but he likes it because he can pick it up and carry it inside wherever he goes. About half the gang, along with assorted girlfriends and boyfriends, lives in a converted three flat over near North Avenue and Damen.

    When Nardi paused Warren said, This El Bano sounds like some kind of cartoon character.

    Nardi’s eyes flashed a warning. "No way; this guy’s strictly bad news. There’s heavy rumors he nailed a girl to a tree last year in the forest preserves and raped her while she bled to death. But our interest in him is that we have information he has political ties through his ‘contributions’ to certain people who provide him with information and protection for his operation. He’s very careful to limit his activities to Cook County, so we also suspect judicial ties.

    His attorney is Harlan Colson, ‘The Fixer’, a real dirtbag who’s slippery enough to lubricate a stucco dildo. Colson takes his retainer in cocaine, so his client list is pretty limited, but he’s very effective at what he does: all the lower court fixes. He hasn’t actually tried a case in five years, but he hasn’t had many clients go to jail either. We figure El Bano has at least a couple politicians, judges and cops on his payroll. Between these guys and The Fixer, he hasn’t done any serious jail time.

    Nardi dropped the file onto his desk. "We want you to develop a case against El Bano-and his clout if you can-and we’ll bring it before the proper grand jury. Because of the investigation’s sensitive nature, you’ll do your reporting directly to me, single copy.

    This is your only assignment. Make your own hours, days, anything. We work on results around here, and either you have them or you’re gone.

    Nardi stood up and walked over to a computer console. Here’s the computer. Nikki will give you your password and help you get started. Matter of fact, just about anything you need around here, see Nikki first; chances are she’ll be able to take care of you. Nardi looked at Warren, then at Butcher. One more thing: What I said about the university students? That goes for Nikki too. She isn’t much older than some of them.

    Nardi checked his watch. By the way, you’re due at the headquarter’s auditorium by a quarter of eleven. You’re attending the superintendent’s news conference.

    Why us? Butcher asked.

    Because you’re the new guys; that means you can’t possibly fuck up and tell any of our secrets.

    CHAPTER 2

    Caroline Cody rushed out of the Fairbanks Court exit of WROT-TV. She was consistent-consistently late-and her crew was waiting impatiently for her. For now, anyway, she could get away with it.

    Caroline had the fresh, nubile beauty of the prom queen, cheerleader, girl-next-door all wrapped into one. Twenty-eight years old, her body was lush without being extravagant, and her honey-blond hair, green eyes and well matched features blended in a near-perfect combination. Being jealous of Caroline’s beauty was like being jealous of Einstein’s brains: It was hopeless to even consider a comparison.

    She knew that by now Lionel Bradford, the tall black man with smooth features and a smoother bearing who handled the sound equipment, and Tony Gleason, the short Irishman with a shock of straw-like red hair who operated the minicam, would be complaining to each other about the Bitch running late again. She noticed, though, that both men cast longing eyes at her as she she hurried across the sidewalk.

    Pulling open the van’s door, she gushed, Hi, Tony; hi, Lionel. I’m not late, am I? Her voice was like warm honey on a hot summer day, and the temperature in the van climbed about ten degrees. She hid her satisfaction as she slammed the door and settled herself in the seat. Let’s get going. We wouldn’t want to be late.

    * * *

    The news conference began promptly at eleven. The Director of News Affairs stood before a bank of microphones; seated behind him were the Superintendent and various members of the command staff. Warren and Butcher stood against the side wall of the crowded room. When the assorted media had settled down, the Director began speaking.

    Good morning. Superintendent Mahoney will now present a progress report on the investigation of last night’s shootings and the Department’s reaction to them. With the superintendent today are the Chief of the Organized Crime Division, the Commander of the Intelligence Section... The Director droned on until he’d completed the introductions; then he turned the microphone over to Mahoney. Superintendent?

    The news conference ground on in an almost painful fashion. The facts were rehashed, theories offered and solutions proposed. Only the last elicited any real interest from the media. The superintendent, as much a politician as a police officer, latched on to their interest.

    As I stated briefly last night, the entire Intelligence Section will be thrown into this all-out fight, and the real work will be done out on the streets by the fine officers of the Chicago Police Department.

    Mahoney spotted Warren and Butcher leaning against the wall. He pointed. Officers like those.

    As all heads in the room turned to follow the pointing finger, the Director of News Affairs whispered in Mahoney’s ear: Warren and Butcher, transferred to Intelligence effective today.

    The superintendent repeated it without missing a single beat. Detectives Warren and Butcher, newly transferred into the Intelligence Section to bolster this must-win effort. As Mahoney continued to speak, the attention of the audience drifted away from the two cops who stood uncomfortably against the wall.

    Across the room, Caroline Cody continued to watch Ray Warren and Billy Butcher. She had an idea, an idea that just might win her another Emmy if everything fell into place. It only took her a moment to decide it was at least worth a try.

    As the press conference wound to a close, Caroline leaned over to her minicam operator and gave him instructions. Tony, you and Lionel set up with the others while they badger Mahoney.

    Where are you...

    I’ll be there in a minute, she said over her shoulder as she moved against the flow. She knew that when her lead-in and wrap were added to what had already been shot of the news conference, there would be more than enough to fill the evening newscasts, and it was doubtful any of the frantic scene on the far side of the room would even make it to the air.

    Her timing was perfect.

    Warren and Butcher were almost at the door when Caroline stepped in front of them, blocking their way. With a friendly smile firmly in place, she spoke in a low, controlled voice.

    Hi, I’m Caroline Cody, WROT-TV? There wasn’t a chance they didn’t know who she was. Nodding her head toward the circus surrounding Mahoney, she said, Quite a show, huh?

    She noted their distaste at the spectacle of bright lights, extended mikes and shouted questions. Keeping her voice low and matter-of-fact, she pushed ahead.

    I think the story is over here. You’re the guys who do the real work, and I’d like to interview you.

    As the chink in the armor started to squeeze shut-she could see it in their eyes-Caroline gazed up into Ray Warren’s, then Billy Butcher’s, eyes. Her own green eyes remained wide and innocent.

    You know, just to get to know you a little better.

    Well, I don’t see any harm.

    I guess it’d be okay.

    The words tumbled out, all mixed together. Both cops stopped talking and glared at each other-each positive he’d been the one Caroline was really talking to.

    That’s great. She offered her hand to each man in turn. How about tomorrow for lunch-on me, of course. Fishing in

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