Paul Bacon by Bad Cop: New York's Least Likely Police Officer Tells All Page A

creases to droopy eyes and excessive nose hair. Most days, this ritual took place
     in direct sunlight, which in the muggy month of August felt oppressive even at seven thirty A.M. I could sweat through an
     entire undershirt before muster was over. On days when I forgot to bring a spare, I’d have to wring it out in a bathroom sink.
    One person who never seemed to break a sweat was a cocky recruit named Neil Moran. A reformed hooligan from the South Bronx,
     Moran was a notorious lady-killer with a pencil-line mustache and a reputation for “getting mad ass.” He also happened to
     be my company sergeant. This wasn’t as impressive as it sounds: Moran was still a plebe like the rest of us, only with more
     responsibilities, like taking daily head counts and dealing with all of our paperwork. He also had to march us around the
     muster deck like little soldiers, and he had to keep us quiet in formation. For all their thankless busywork, company sergeants
     enjoyed one exclusive privilege, their choice of precinct at the end of the semester.
    The academy appointed Moran to this position based on his army experience—and apparently nothing else. He was or ganized but
     aloof, smart but intellectually lazy, approachable but never around to be approached. He acted as if he was giving us a break
     by not being a disciplinarian like the other company sergeants, but his leniency earned him no fans. He was quickly written
     off as an opportunist and a fraud.
    Plus, Moran used his ostensible workload as an excuse to be late to everything. Muster to him was like a brunch appointment—if
     you showed up after the first Bloody Mary, nobody really cared enough to notice. One morning, when he was particularly late,
     an instructor approached our company looking for him.
    “Where’s your company sergeant?” said Officer Dilonzio, our fidgety law teacher, a kind-hearted senior staffer who doted on
     our group because we were so frequently left without supervision.
    Stony silence from Company 02. Where’s Moran ? Where’s Jimmy Hoffa? Where’s Waldo?
    Officer Dilonzio nodded as though he realized it was a stupid question. He wrung his hands and looked nervously around the
     muster deck, where five other companies were standing with their group leaders waiting for the detail to begin. Other instructors
     were lining up by the door, ready to pounce.
    Dilonzio turned back to our group. “One of youze gotta be in charge here, or there’ll be hell to pay. Who else is former military?”
    Two recruits put up their hands, but both claimed they couldn’t remember how to open and close ranks for inspection—a series
     of verbal commands which, if not perfectly executed, could turn us all into bowling pins.
    Dilonzio started looking around at different faces, searching for someone. When his eyes locked on mine, he said, “Bacon,
     fall out.”
    “I don’t even know . . .”
    “Hurry up,” he said. “It’s almost time.”
    I squeezed through two ranks of my classmates and met Officer Dilonzio in front of the formation. “Why me?” I asked him.
    He put his hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “You’re a quick learner.”
    “But I have poor short-term memory,” I whispered back.
    “You’ll be fine,” he said.
    “Seriously, sir. I’m not up to this. Request permission to nominate someone else.”
    “Too late,” he said. “Just listen. Start with everyone at attention , then it’s secure your gear. Then it’s dress-right-dress , and then stow your gear , and then it’s . . .” Two dozen commands later, he brought it home. “. . . And after that, it’s just fourth rank, right face, and then company, march . Can you do that?”
    I wanted to say, “What comes after attention ?” but I knew I wasn’t going to retain anything under this kind of pressure. Officer Dilonzio’s hovering was making me more
     nervous, so I said, “Yeah, no problem,” to make him go away.
    “Good man,” he said, patting my