Free Badge of Evil by Bill Stanton Page B

crime were being committed, how often, and in which locations. In essence, the NYPD’s precincts functioned completely in the dark. How do you know where to put your resources if you don’t even know where the crimes are being committed? It’d be like trying to run a company without having up-to-date sales figures.
    CompStat changed all that. Every crime and police incident in every part of the city was tracked every single day by computer, which resulted in detailed street maps showing where the action occurred. So on any given day, a precinct commander knew exactly where the drug sales, the rapes, the purse snatchings, and the car thefts took place. And because he knew which corners, which alleys, which apartment buildings, and which subway stations had problems, he knew where to put his cops. It also meant that for the first time in the history of the New York City police department, precinct commanders could be held accountable for what took place on their watch.
    Kevin’s idea was to turn the CompStat process on its head. Used correctly, this information could be just as valuable to criminals as it was to the cops. For someone like Church Jackson, knowing where the cops were going to be, and knowing where his competitors were set up, was invaluable. Having this intelligence was like the street-crime equivalent of insider trading.
    â€œSo we make the deal with Kevin,” Supreme continued. “I mean, what the fuck, yo, it’s not like we had any choice. We set a meeting for later in the week to work out the rest of the details. He said he was gonna have a partner, some higher-up in the department who’d provide most of the info and additional protection. But this guy won’t be at the meeting. He’ll stay in the background, remain anonymous. Then he takes off the cuffs and tells us he needs fifty K. Now. He wants twenty-five as a motherfuckin’ show of good faith, and twenty-five to make the cop who was with him look the other way. At that point I knew Big K wasn’t just jammin’. This was no spontaneous fuckin’ flash of lightnin’, all right? Somehow the crazy motherfucker had planned it. Man,” Supreme said, shaking his head and laughing, “that nigga was somethin’. ”
    Lucy’s mind was racing. She wanted to ask questions, to probe for details. But Supreme was clearly determined to continue telling the story and she didn’t want to place any obstacles in front of him.
    The partnership turned out to be an extraordinary arrangement for everyone. Church Jackson and Supreme made more money than ever—even with 15 percent coming off the top—and they didn’t have to waste time and energy protecting their turf and fighting off the competition. Kevin and his anonymous partner, who were raking it in as well, pretty much took care of that. The deal even made Kevin look like a first-rate, kick-ass cop. With help from Church and Supreme—the intelligence exchange was a two-way street—his arrest numbers were very strong and he started getting regular promotions.
    For five years, it was the perfect deal. And then Church Jackson turned up dead. Not just dead, but with his head and feet cut off. “The nigga was found in little pieces on a baseball field in Macombs Dam Park behind Yankee Stadium,” Supreme said. “It was no joke. You gotta be one crazy-ass motherfucker to do that. I’m talkin’ Jeffrey Dahmer, Hannibal Lecter, Osama bin motherfuckin’ Laden crazy, know what I’m sayin’? They cut off his fingers and all ten digits were placed on the pitcher’s mound. Tryin’ to make it look like a ritualistic killing or some shit is one thing. But the psycho had to know if he dumped the body on that baseball field that a bunch of neighborhood kids would find it.”
    â€œDo you know—?” Lucy started to ask, but Supreme slowly held up his hand to stop her. He wasn’t ready