On stylish detectives and being a fashion icon

It seems that I have become something of a New York City fashion icon. Yet another magnificent piece about my refined taste and sense of style has been published by the wonderful folks at Men’s Wear News. I will need to remember to tell Paul to add these fine journalists to the priority press pass and parking placard lists. Just to give you a sense of how exquisite the article really is, here is one of my favorite quotations:

“Standing along the railing in a charcoal Martin Greenfield hand-tailored suit against the backdrop of lights speckling the skyline and the Queensboro Bridge—now the Ed Koch Bridge, whose new name is the cause célèbre that night—the only peep of bright is Kelly’s Charvet tie, so pink it practically reflects the faraway Pepsi-Cola sign.”

Martin Greenfield suits and Charvet ties. There’s nothing better. But as fine as these suits and ties are, what really makes them shine is that fact that yours truly is wearing them.

“He will not take credit, but under his watch the police department’s dress has improved.”

I must say, this journalist is the cream of the crop. She even recognized the deep sense of humbleness that pervades everything I do.

"'Detectives are looking better than ever before,' he admits. Do people work harder when they dress better? 'I think they feel better and that probably makes them work better,' he says."

Phil, a truly consummate professional, immediately confirmed this when I tweeted him the article. He says that New York City detectives have never looked better as they fumble through dozens of different case checklists, fill out a multitude of log books (for such things as vehicle utilization, telephone calls, sign in/sign out, prisoner debriefings, and so forth), update their DD5’s in the electronic case management system, type up arrays of useless cell phone subpoenas for cases where the phone has seen zero usage since it was stolen, call up IAB to obtain log numbers when they want to use department vehicles to go to court, and, of course, create corresponding essays in their memo books duplicating all the aforementioned information in all its glorious detail. And if any of the memo book entries are missing or the various logs have been improperly filled out, the detective will look quite "dignified and discreet" as he is issued his command discipline by Phil's upstanding henchmen in Inspections.

Phil, the smartest guy on this job, also added that our detectives really do feel better in their stylish suits as they try to jump-start the single working RMP assigned to their respective squad to go out to the latest homicide scene (where priority number one is going to be to make sure that the proper color of crime scene tape is being utilized so nobody gets screamed at in case Phil shows up - but they sure do look good in their suits while doing so).

And so I hope you can see that the brilliance that Phil has brought to the Detective Bureau is quite apparent. Between completing all this redundant paperwork and doing useless stuff to prepare for the squad commander’s upcoming grilling at CompStat, most detectives barely have a chance to go out in the field to conduct any investigations anymore. And that means their great looking suits won’t get ruined. Because a refined suit is what the Detective Bureau is all about.

Appearance, folks, appearance. That’s what it’s all about. (Well, that and useless redundancy. Actually really just anything that makes life miserable for the people who do field work.) That prick Bill Bratton had the broken windows strategy. I have the smoke and mirrors strategy.

Most importantly, though, I made sure to end the interview with the requisite tough guy quote:

“Now it is more speaking events with ties than wrestling with somebody in the good old days,” he says. But tie or no tie, “we will jump out of a car if something happens.”

Damn right. I am the man. I will jump out, direct my detail detectives to make the collar, and then the whole kit and caboodle will get handed off to some schmuck on patrol to process. And I won't have to fear a 10-day hit for failing to make "proper" memo book entries when I do "jump out of the car" and order someone else to take action.

The Ticketgate Chronicles #2: Business as usual

About a week after the big ticket scandal broke I found myself in the conference room surveying a map of citywide skywatch deployments (I will have to one day write a bit about this ingenious concept I invented) when I got a call from a Boro Park resident and good friend of mine, the venerable rabbi Moshe F.

“Commissioner, I have a fistful of double parkers that I need taken care of! The local precinct is refusing to help me out. What should I do?”

“Moshe, haven’t you been reading the papers?”

“Of course, but what’s the problem? Can’t you do anything for me?”

Knowing full well that Charlie might have a wire up on my own phone (you just never know these days), I had to play this the right way. But Moshe does represent a significant voting block that might be of importance to me in my planned mayoral bid, so, of course, I had to help him out.

“Moshe, we can’t just ‘take care of’ or ‘fix’ summonses. That would be illegal, corrupt, and ethically offensive. But, of course, if there are clerical errors we can void the summonses out.”

“But there are no errors, commissioner, I just need these to go away!”

“Of course there are errors, Moshe. There always are. Send them on down and I’ll have someone prepare the necessary paperwork.”

Realistically, are there going to be any errors in the summonses? Probably not, but we’ll just make something up that sounds good.

Folks, please take this as an object lesson in how the real world works. The losers at the bottom of the bureaucratic ladder have no recourse now that they can’t just make summonses disappear. But guys like me who are on top of the world? We just invent official procedures, forms, and log books to make everything appear to be kosher.

You might call this hypocrisy, I simply call it business as usual for the politically connected. Please remember that as you consider contributing to my Police Foundation slush fund. I have a few more Harvard Club dinners lined up that I need to have paid for. Thanks in advance.

The Ticketgate Chronicles #1: That insufferable prick

I had just grabbed my usual decaf iced cappuccino at Dunkin Donuts and was settling into my leather seat in the roving bunker SUV on the way into the office when I got a phone call on my BlackBerry from Charlie, my chief of Internal Affairs. Receiving any sort of direct communication from this guy has become something of a rarity over the years (having entirely lost touch with reality, he thinks he’s some kind of corruption fighting superhero who needs to hide in the shadows all the time), so I knew this would not be a social conversation. I immediately put down my iPad and answered the call.

Charlie proceeded to explain to me in excruciating detail how his ace rat squad cronies had overheard some nonsense about “ticket fixing” while listening in on an unrelated wiretap. I couldn’t believe this guy was wasting my time with something so silly.

“So what’s the big deal, Charlie? Why are you calling me like you just discovered the next Dirty Thirty or Michael Dowd?”

“Uh, well, boss, here’s the thing. We kind of referred this little tidbit to the Bronx D.A.’s office for further investigation. They’ve blown this up into a huge scandal and have dedicated an entire staff of prosecutors to it. They’re also asking us to contribute IAB investigators to the whole affair.”

I was absolutely livid. I kicked the back of the front seat one of my detail detectives was sitting in so hard that he spilled his coffee all over himself. (Oh well, it’s not like he was wearing a bespoke Martin Greenfield suit, so who cares.) I then screamed a few choice words into the phone and hung up. Why do I have so many morons working for me? What kind of idiot refers something like this to the Bronx district attorney? Of all the insufferable pricks in the history of district attorneys, this guy Robert Johnson in the Bronx takes the cake. Like he or his prosecutorial staff of losers has never had a summons taken care of before. What a bunch of hypocrites.

But I must digress. As much as I thought the rats in Internal Affairs royally screwed up, the cat was out of the bag. And as a master of the political arts, the only thing left to do was to orchestrate a little damage control to protect my own reputation. That, of course, meant to fully back the Bronx D.A.’s bogus investigation with the full force of my Internal Affairs Bureau (as the brilliant Sherlock Holmes-ian investigators that they are). As we rolled into One Police Plaza I tossed the rest of my iced cappuccino into some random cop’s face and made myself comfortable in the office with a generous helping of Kool Aid.

I immediately called upon Mordechai, my special projects man, who spent several days rummaging through various city storage facilities to dispose of any evidence that might embarrass important folks such as myself or Mike. I can assert with confidence now that nobody will ever be able to prove that I had a ticket “fixed.” (And, of course, I never knew anything about any ticket fixing going on in this department. I am shocked, disgusted, and deeply outraged by this corrupt practice.)

I then ordered a full work-up of GO-15s and other disciplinary goodies to bestow upon all the losers on patrol who write moving violations. Throwing a couple of working guys and gals under the bus is simply another cost of doing business in the office of the almighty police commissioner, folks!