Snitches Get Stitches: The Frank Serpico Story

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On the bitterly cold night of February 3rd, 1971, Three three men crept into a rundown building in Brooklyn and headed upstairs towards the home of a notorious heroin dealer.

They were undercover cops.

They wore street clothes and planned to catch the dealer in a sting.

One of them would pretend they wanted to buy drugs.

Officers Gary Rotman and Arthur Chesire knew the third man on their team would play that part best.

His name was Frank Serpico.

Serpico was 35 and easily blended in as a drug user.

He wore hip clothes, had shaggy hair, and was known for being a good actor.

But he wasn't exactly well-liked by his fellow officers.

A year earlier, Serpico helped expose corruption in the New York Police Department.

He'd been the main informant for a New York Times story that revealed a vast network of cops who took bribes from criminals.

Ever since, other officers branded him as a traitor.

Serpico had to constantly watch his back, but he didn't let fear get in the way of doing his duty.

As the officers approached the dealer's apartment, Rotman and Cesare ducked into the shadows.

Serpico ruffled his hair and reached into his old army jacket to make sure he had his revolver.

Then he knocked on the door.

The peephole opened and an eye stared out.

In slurred Spanish, Serpico said he needed a fix.

The door clicked and unlocked.

As soon as it opened, Serpico shouted, police, and tried to rush in, but someone rammed the door back against him.

Serpico was now jammed, half in, half out, with the door crushing his shoulder.

He desperately wanted to grab his gun, but his arm was stuck and he couldn't reach his pocket.

He called for his partners to help him, but when he twisted his head around to look back, he saw Rotman and Chesere just standing there.

They were watching him, dead-eyed.

Serpico realized he was on his own.

He twisted twisted around until he was finally able to pull his gun, but as he moved to fire, he saw the barrel of another gun jutting out of the darkness.

Serpico heard a loud bang and saw a white-hot light.

He felt his own gun go off, then fell to the floor.

As excruciating pain flooded his head, he realized he'd been shot point-blank in the face.

As he lay there in agony, an old man, perhaps a neighbor, knelt at Serpico's side, telling him to hang in there.

He'd call the police.

If Serpico could have responded, he might have said, the police were already there.

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From Ballin Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke Lamana, and this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide.

This week's episode is called Snitches Get Stitches, the Frank Serpico Story.

In the 1960s, while the New York Police Department protected the city city from major crimes like murder, they often turned a blind eye to more minor criminal activity, like illegal gambling.

It wasn't out of negligence.

They did it for money.

Many officers were on what they called the pad, a system where they received regular bribes in exchange for leaving the gambling rings alone.

Some officers made tens of thousands of dollars a year in bribes, more than doubling their annual pay.

And while other officers felt the pad was wrong, they minded their own business.

Cops didn't sell out other cops.

But Officer Frank Serpico blew the whistle anyway.

Serpico was no ordinary cop.

He lived in the West Village with the artists, Vietnam protesters, and activists.

He dressed like a hippie, dated ballerinas, and had a passion for opera.

But even if he had an unconventional personal life, His approach to police work was by the book.

When he discovered fellow officers were corrupt, he sought justice, regardless of the risks.

But Serpico would learn, when you try to fix a broken system, the system will try to break you.

On a hot day in August 1966, Frank Serpico walked through a police station garage.

The 30-year-old was finishing up one of his first shifts as a plainclothes cop in Brooklyn's 90th precinct.

He'd spent a few years as a uniformed cop, where his job was mostly harassing loiterers and homeless people.

But it wasn't satisfying.

He wanted to do more.

So when he got the promotion to a plainclothes cop, he was excited to be able to take on more serious crimes.

He was already building up his own kit of wigs and disguises so he could blend into different environments.

Soon, he'd be able to pose as a range of character types.

everything from a rabbi to a pimp.

The 90th Precinct was teeming with mafia dons, gambling rings, and drug dealers who preyed on the city's most vulnerable.

Serpico would finally be allowed to take down real criminals.

Most of all, Serpico was happy that he was finally getting closer to becoming a detective.

It was his lifelong dream.

After four years as a plainclothes officer, he would be eligible for the job.

Some cops weaseled their way into getting promoted by making friends with the right people.

But Serpico wanted to prove himself through good, old-fashioned police work, and he made it his mission to shine in his new role as a plainclothes officer.

As he made his way to his car, another officer approached him and asked if he was Frank Serpico.

Serpico nodded, and the officer handed him a white envelope.

He said it was from Jewish Max.

Serpico frowned.

Jewish Max was the nickname of a man who ran a local gambling ring.

Serpico asked the officer what he was supposed to do with the envelope.

The man shrugged and said, anything you want.

Serpico got into his car and opened the envelope.

Immediately, he felt sick.

Inside was a stack of bills totaling $300.

As he sat staring down at the money in his lap, he thought about reporting the bribe, but he was torn.

He wasn't sure who was in on the pad and who wasn't.

Part of him wondered if he was being tested to prove his loyalty to crooked cops or the law.

Later that month, Serpico walked down the hall of an NYPD internal affairs building.

He was carrying the envelope of cash in his pocket, and he felt nervous.

The only thing that calmed him was the unlikely ally walking next to him.

His name was David Dirk.

Dirk was a plainclothes cop too, but the complete opposite of Serpico.

Serpico was the son of Italian immigrants, a street-smart loner.

He had grown a beard that his coworkers thought looked ridiculous.

But Dirk was clean-cut and outgoing.

He had studied political science at Columbia Law School before switching to police work.

Dirk was well-connected and loved to brag about his influence with the mayor's office.

They may have been different, but Serpico and Dirk bonded over their hatred of crooked cops.

The night Serpico got the envelope with $300, he called Dirk for help.

Days later, Dirk brought Serpico to meet Captain Philip Faran.

He was head of the Department of Investigation, which fought corruption in the NYPD.

Serpico had told Dirk he wasn't sure they could trust Faran, but Dirk insisted.

Captain Faran was the most honest cop he had ever met.

As Serpico walked into Faran's office and shook his hand, Faran was friendly and warm.

He looked a little like John F.

Kennedy.

Serpico relaxed.

He told Faran he suspected cops in his division were taking bribes.

Faran looked surprised.

He said he didn't think that was happening anymore.

Then Serpico took out the envelope of cash and dropped it on Ferran's desk.

He said it was definitely still a problem.

Serpico explained that an officer had given him this money.

It was a bribe from a local mobster.

Ferrand's warmth evaporated.

He told Serpico he had two options.

He could send this up the chain, and they'd force Serpico to testify in front of a grand jury.

And once word got out, every cop in New York would think he was a rat.

In which case, Ferran explained, his body would probably end up face down in the East River.

Faran then pushed the envelope back across the desk and said, or the other option was just to forget about the whole thing.

Serpico was stunned.

He looked at Dirk, who was also shaken.

He wondered if Faran was in on the pad and working to cover it up, or if he was just too afraid of the consequences.

Serpico took the envelope back, but he insisted he wasn't going to keep it.

He asked if he should give it to his sergeant instead.

Ferran said that was a good plan and then motioned towards the door.

After they left Ferran's office, Dirk apologized to Serpico.

He was wrong about the captain.

The man was clearly a coward, but Dirk said he had other connections who could help.

Serpico told him to forget it.

He didn't trust that Dirk's other leads would be any good.

A few days later, Serpico gave the envelope to his sergeant and said he was staying out of whatever this was.

The sergeant didn't ask any questions.

He just put the envelope in his pocket, which then made Serpico think he was in on the bribes too.

Serpico felt disgusted.

He thought about quitting the force, but he knew there were still honest people who needed help, and he was getting closer and closer to earning his detective's badge.

So he vowed to himself that he'd stay on and find some way to take the pad down on his own.

Six months later, Serpico was slumped at at a bar in the Bronx, nursing a beer and watching the Rose Parade on TV.

It was the morning of January 1st, 1967, and he hoped that the new year would be better than the last.

The end of 1966 was rough for Serpico.

He'd been transferred out of the 90th Precinct into a new division, the 7th Precinct in the Bronx.

That's because after his encounter with Faran, he started tracking and busting gambling rings on his own without telling other officers.

But it didn't take long for them to find out, and Serpico was suddenly transferred out of the division.

The message was clear.

His fellow officers wanted nothing to do with him.

But even though Serpico was now sipping beer before noon, he wasn't drowning his sorrows.

He was casing the bar.

He sat beside another officer, a tough-talking fellow plainclothes cop named Robert Stannard.

Stannard had gotten a tip that this bar was hot, in other words, a hub for illegal gambling activity.

Serpico narrowed his eyes and watched a man in a baggy suit sitting in a dark corner at the bar.

Every few minutes, someone would sidle up to him and whisper in his ear.

The man would then scribble on a slip of paper.

Serpico knew the man in the baggy suit was taking sports bets.

Since there were a bunch of football games set for that day, the man was probably going to make a killing.

unless Serpico and Stannard stopped him.

Stannard was eyeing the man too, and Serpico was glad to see how angry he looked.

Stannard chugged his beer and stomped over to the man.

Serpico hopped up to follow.

He expected Stannard to cuff the guy and drag him to the station.

Instead, Stannard called the man by his name, Trotso.

He clearly knew Trotso well and treated him more like an annoying kid brother than a criminal.

Stannard whispered to Trotso that he shouldn't have come here.

The cops knew the bar was hot, and now he had to arrest him.

When Trotso protested, Stannard promised he'd slap him with a light charge, something easy to dismiss.

Serpico shook his head.

Stannard was just as crooked as the others.

And when Stannard led Trotzo outside, Serpico didn't follow.

He sat back down at the bar with a sigh.

He hated what he'd just seen, but calling it out would just have stirred up more trouble.

If he wanted to make detective, he couldn't afford to be booted from another precinct.

He'd have to think about what else he could do.

The next day at the station, Stannard cornered Serpico and gave him a $100 bill.

He said it was a thank you from Trotso for letting him off easy.

This was Serpico's half.

Serpico shoved the money back into Stannard's hands.

He said he didn't want anything to do with it.

Serpico hoped Stannard would leave it at that, but he narrowed his eyes and told Serpico to take a ride with him.

Minutes later, the two men were cruising in Stannard's car as he explained to Serpico how things worked.

The 7th Division did have a deal with gambling rings, a very profitable one.

The pad was $800 a month per officer.

That's about $8,000 in today's money.

Stannard said that Serpico didn't even need to do anything to earn that cash, except keep his mouth shut.

Then, Stannard revealed another secret.

When Serpico started this job, Stannard got a call from a tipster who said Serpico couldn't be trusted.

They had said he was a hippie-loving weirdo who didn't play ball.

Serpico scoffed, and Stannard put a hand on his shoulder.

He said it was fine.

He'd taken a leap of faith and stood up for him.

But Stannard needed to know if he could be trusted.

Serpico glared at Stannard.

He said the other officers could do whatever they wanted.

He wasn't getting involved.

That night, Serpico went home and paced around his living room.

He had a few drinks and thought about quitting again.

But instead, he made a call that would put him squarely in the crosshairs of his fellow officers.

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Later that month, Cornelius Bion walked out of a classroom at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan.

B.N.

was in his early 40s and a captain in the NYPD, and he was taking night courses in criminal investigation.

It was dark out when he left, and the hallway was dim.

But as Bion rounded a corner, he saw a figure in silhouette moving closer towards him.

It was Frank Serpico.

Normally, Bian liked Serpico.

He'd used his Spanish-speaking skills to help Bian out on a few cases.

And Bian knew Serpico liked him too, probably because Bian lived by the book and had a strong moral code.

He even led Catholic retreats for officers, like a priestly big brother.

But when Bian saw Serpico tonight, he tensed up.

A few days ago, Serpico had called him to rant about the rampant bribing he'd uncovered at the 7th Division.

He was furious.

Serpico asked what he should do, and Bian hesitated.

Getting involved was risky, and he needed time to think, so he suggested they talk another time.

But Serpico wasn't satisfied.

He didn't hang up until Bian promised he'd reach out to higher-ups about the issue.

So Bian reluctantly agreed.

But now Serpico had tracked him down to the college where they both took night courses.

He wanted to know what had happened.

Bian whispered that he and Serpico couldn't talk in the open, so Serpico told him to come to his car.

Bian really didn't want to get tangled up in any more of this mess, but it was freezing out, so he agreed to let Serpico give him a ride to Penn Station and they could chat.

Inside Serpico's BMW, Serpico reiterated that it wasn't just one or two dirty cops taking bribes.

The whole system was rotten.

and Serpico needed Bian's help to change it.

He asked if Bian had told anyone else like he said he would.

Bian snapped back that he'd already gone to Commissioner John Walsh and let him know what Serpico had told him.

Walsh said he would be in touch soon.

Serpico smiled and thanked Bian for his help.

His mood seemed to shift instantly.

He now looked happier than Bian had seen him in weeks.

But Bian wasn't telling Serpico the full truth.

He had gone to Walsh's office, but he only spoke to an assistant.

And while he did mention Serpico's suspicions, he also mentioned that he thought Serpico might be exaggerating.

He was hedging.

Serpico was a wild card, and Bian didn't want Walsh to think they were too close.

So he hoped he could placate Serpico and keep him at arm's length.

A few months later, Serpico was sulking in his apartment.

His friend David Dirk poured him a shot of whiskey.

while Serpico told him about his talk with Bian.

At first, Serpico had been optimistic.

After they spoke, Bian told Serpico that Commissioner Walsh was impressed by his integrity.

Walsh was going to transfer him to an anti-corruption unit where he could investigate the crimes himself.

It was incredible news for Serpico.

But then, suddenly, the transfer was off.

Walsh wanted Serpico to stay in the 7th Division, to observe the pad, and pass along info to Bian, which Serpico did.

But after a few months, Serpico told Bian he was running out of patience.

He hadn't heard a peep from Walsh, so he threatened to contact the commissioner himself.

Bian lost his cool and told Serpico he was done being the go-between.

He tried his best to help, but the ball was in Walsh's court now.

Serpico sighed and told Dirk that he was on his own again.

Dirk sat by him and said that wasn't true.

He could help.

Yes, his relationship with Captain Ferran turned out to be a dead end.

but he had other connections outside the NYPD they could go to, people at City Hall.

Serpico downed his whiskey and nodded.

That was worth a shot.

A few months later, on a Sunday in April 1967, Jay Kriegel scrambled around his basement office at City Hall.

The 26-year-old was chief of staff to New York's new mayor, John Lindsay.

Krigel was a Harvard law graduate and regularly pulled 15-hour workdays.

He focused on issues around social welfare and law enforcement, and despite his busy schedule, he was looking forward to his next meeting.

As he shoved a last stack of papers into his drawer, he heard a knock at the door.

It was Officer David Dirk, a good friend who'd brought along a buddy of his own, Frank Serpico.

Kriegel shook Serpico's hand, eager to hear what the officer had to say.

Dirk had briefed Kriegel on some of the corruption going on in the NYPD.

Kriegel was new to City Hall, just like the mayor, so he hadn't known how bad things were.

He asked the men to sit and picked up a pen and pad.

He told Serpico to tell him everything.

For the next two hours, Serpico unloaded about the widespread bribing he'd witnessed.

He admitted that he used to think he could solve the problem internally, but now he thought the whole system was far too sick to heal itself.

He hoped someone more powerful like Mayor Lindsay could change things.

Kriegel thanked Serpico for his bravery.

He knew how much the officer stood to lose by speaking speaking out, and he told Serpico he would absolutely talk to the mayor.

Serpico and Dirk left the office with renewed hope.

But a few days later, Serpico heard back from Kriegel, and it was bad news.

Apparently, the mayor said he couldn't do anything about Serpico's criminal conspiracy for now.

The summer was going to be a long and hot one, meaning looting and riots.

Lindsay was going to need the police, so he couldn't antagonize them.

It was for the city's greater good.

Dirk was outraged.

Once again, someone he trusted had let them down, but Serpico just felt numb.

He wasn't going to allow himself to remain hopeful anymore.

After several months, in October 1967, Serpico paced inside the 7th Division station.

He was outside the office of the newly appointed chief of his division, Deputy Inspector Stephen Killerin.

The man wanted to see him.

Serpico wasn't completely sure what it was about, but he figured it had to do with some of the problems he'd been having with his fellow officers.

Serpico knew that they hated him.

After he'd made it clear he didn't approve of the bribes, they decided he was a traitor, and they wouldn't cooperate with him on any assignments.

The prospect of justice, or getting a detective shield, seemed dimmer than ever.

and Serpico was at the end of his rope.

So he knocked on Killeran's door.

He figured things couldn't get any worse.

When Killeran opened it, he told Serpico to sit.

Then he asked if Serpico thought he was the only honest man in the NYPD.

Before Serpico could respond, Killeran laid into him.

He said he wanted to run his division honestly, and he'd taken down crooked cops before, and he demanded to know why Serpico went to the mayor to report the pad and not him.

Serpico gritted his teeth.

He asked if Killeran was just mad that he was airing their dirty laundry.

Killeran said he wasn't, and if Serpico cooperated, maybe they could actually clean up the 7th Division.

Serpico had heard false promises for so long that it was hard to believe that Killeran was serious about fighting corruption.

Maybe he had ulterior motives, or maybe he was just crooked too.

Still, real help was being offered, and Serpico couldn't afford to turn it down.

So he said he would work with Killerin.

But he had some conditions.

He was going to name names.

Killeran couldn't just punish low-level cops.

If this conspiracy went straight to the top, they had to follow it all the way.

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More than a year later, in January 1969, Serpico walked into the Harlem Narcotics Division.

It was his new station, and this was his first day on the job.

The officers were joking around and drinking coffee, but when they saw him, they went quiet.

He knew why.

He'd spent the last year cooperating with Killerin's team.

At first, the group was small and scrappy.

They met in supermarket parking lots late at night, and they had some early successes, like using Serpico's Intel to bust small-time gambling operations.

But the game changed the previous year, in March of 68, when the team busted a couple who ran an illegal betting business that paid off the police.

They turned out to be funded by the New Jersey mafia, so the case suddenly became huge.

A grand jury was assembled and Serpico testified against the cops who took bribes.

Afterwards, Serpico was commended for his bravery and promoted to the Harlem Narcotics Unit.

This was a step up, but Serpico knew it came at a cost.

He had a lot of new enemies.

Now, as he stood in the division office, he noticed everyone was avoiding even looking at him, except for one guy, a dark-haired, blue-eyed officer.

The officer walked right up to Serpico and pulled a switchblade from his pocket.

Serpico stepped back as the other officers started to laugh.

The cop with the knife pressed a button and a five-inch blade popped out.

Serpico jabbed his elbow into the cop's wrist, knocking the knife to the ground.

Then he twisted the guy's arm until he screamed in pain.

Serpico pulled out his revolver and told him if he made a move, he'd blow his brains out.

Other cops rushed in to break up the fight.

Serpico's attacker grunted that he was only joking.

After a beat, Serpico said he was just joking too and let him go.

Serpico walked away, panting.

His testimony had turned him into a total pariah.

And to make matters worse, when the grand jury began making indictments about a month later, Serpico wondered if it had all been worth the sacrifice.

Only eight men were indicted, and they were all low-level plainclothes cops.

One of them was Serpico's old co-worker, Robert Stannard.

These arrests wouldn't change anything.

Serpico knew there were superior officers involved who would keep their jobs and their crooked system in play.

Deputy Inspector Killerin meant well, but now more than ever, Serpico believed that the NYPD just couldn't investigate itself, and City Hall was too reliant on its relationship with the police department to do anything either.

Serpico was out of moves, and that's when Dirk pitched his last resort.

He had a contact at the New York Times.

If that didn't set things in emotion, nothing would.

On April 21st, 1970, NYPD Commissioner Howard Leary sat in the mayor's office.

He'd been urgently summoned to City Hall, and he was dreading this meeting.

Mayor Lindsay sat calmly in front of him.

Leary thought he seemed too calm and even cold.

It rattled him more than if the mayor was yelling and screaming.

The mayor explained that a Times reporter was writing a story about corruption in the NYPD.

It could be a bombshell and a political nightmare for both of them.

Mayor Lindsay said they had to act fast to get ahead of the situation.

So the mayor and Leary came up with a plan.

City Hall would announce a task force to investigate corruption, and Leary would figure out which officer had gone to the Times.

It didn't take long for Leary to find out that the informant was Serpico.

But a few days later, the story ran.

Leary immediately protested that the article was a smear campaign orchestrated by an officer that other cops said was a psycho.

He fought hard to defend the NYPD, but he ultimately resigned from his position a few months later.

Both he and the mayor insisted that it had nothing to do with the accusations in the New York Times.

Mayor Lindsay replaced Leary with a more progressive commissioner and promised a new impartial investigation into corruption at the NYPD.

Serpico had been let down many times before, but this time it looked like his bravery was going to lead to real change.

And though he had a lot of enemies on the police force, higher-ups urged him to stay on.

If the NYPD was cleaning house, they needed good cops like him to stick around and help shape the future.

So he stayed on at his job in narcotics, where he played a key role in dismantling the city's heroin trade.

But as he dove into his work, Serpico found himself in more danger.

The kind of danger that, in the winter of 1971, got him shot in the face and nearly killed.

A few weeks after he was shot in the Brooklyn apartment building, Serpico winced in pain in his hospital bed.

He grabbed a get-well card from the chair beside him.

He'd gotten a lot of cards, but he'd been looking at this one every chance he got.

The printed text read, recuperate quickly, but someone had written over it, so the card now said, die quickly, you scumbag.

He figured it was from another officer.

And if someone out there wanted him dead, their wish had nearly come true.

When Serpico was brought to the hospital after his shooting, doctors didn't know if he'd survive.

The bullet had just missed his brain, but it left shrapnel throughout his skull, including one piece that nearly severed his carotid artery.

Cerebral fluid had leaked from his ear, and doctors worried he'd develop a dangerous infection called meningitis.

Luckily, that didn't happen, and his face was now healing nicely too.

But he was left permanently deaf in his left ear and had nerve damage that extended down to his leg and forced him to use a cane.

But the worst part about the situation for Serpico was the way his colleagues handled the shooting.

In the police report, his partners Cesare and Rotman swore that they tried to help Serpico at the door.

That certainly wasn't how he remembered it.

He flashed back to the two men's blank faces as he was stuck in the door.

They just stood there as he screamed for help.

Even more disturbing was the record of the call to police dispatch.

It said that a civilian had called the cops, probably the old man who had comforted Serpico.

That meant that the two officers, Cesare and Rotman, hadn't.

They claimed it was because they were busy trying to apprehend the dealer, but Serpico didn't buy it.

His partners might have been hoping that he died before the ambulance arrived.

As Serpico stared down at the card, he heard a knock at the door.

Sidney Cooper walked in.

He was a police chief and was helping the new commission weed out corruption in the NYPD.

Serpico was going to be their star witness.

Cooper told Serpico that many NYPD officers saw him as a hero.

35 cops had offered to donate blood when he was shot.

But it didn't change the fact that he was lying here in a hospital bed.

Serpico was sure that for every cop who supported him, there were hundreds more who wanted him dead.

The chief told Serpico he'd come bearing good news.

The NYPD bigwigs were promoting Serpico to detective.

He'd finally earned his gold shield.

As the news sank in, Serpico felt a surge of conflicting emotions.

Earning that shield had been his childhood dream.

It was what he'd wanted more than anything.

But now that he was a pariah among the police force, it meant nothing.

Serpico told the chief to give a message to the NYPD.

Tell them they know where they can shove it.

In December 1971, Serpico testified for Mayor Lindsay's Commission on Corruption in the NYPD.

He said he hoped that in the future, other cops would not be made to suffer like he he had, that their superior officers would applaud their efforts to stop corruption, instead of ignoring them or trying to shut them down.

Then he gave the commission a final warning.

The public could never trust the police until every police officer was trustworthy.

In early 1972, Serpico was awarded a Medal of Honor, the NYPD's most prestigious award.

But it felt like an empty gesture, especially since it came just as news broke that one Brooklyn division had taken taken $250,000 in bribes from the mafia.

And it wasn't like the corrupt cops were being severely punished.

Captain Faran, the NYPD's chief corruption fighter who ignored Serpico's information, got only a 30-day suspension for his involvement.

Serpico realized the NYPD would just never change.

He had tried to fix it, and it had nearly cost him his life.

In 1972, Serpico quit the force at age 36 and left the U.S.

altogether.

Serpico traveled through Europe for a decade while the wheels of justice turned in New York.

Many officers were charged.

A permanent anti-corruption commission was created, and crooked officers faced much harsher punishment, much of it thanks to his testimony.

And Serpico became one of the world's most famous crime fighters when Al Pacino starred in the hit 1973 movie about his crusade.

But Serpico is still an exception, one of the few whistleblowers ever willing to call out police corruption.

He remains a dedicated activist to this day at age 88.

In lectures at colleges and police academies, Serpico still warns about what he calls the blue wall: cops who protect cops more than they protect their communities.

He says he knows police corruption will never go away entirely.

He just wants the next Frank Serpico to be prepared.

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From Balin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana.

A quick note about our stories.

We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized.

We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend the book Serpico by Peter Maas, the Knapp Commission Report on Police Corruption, and articles in the New York Times.

This episode was written by Amin Ossman, sound design by Andre Plus.

Our producers are Christopher B.

Dunn and John Reed.

Our associate producers are Inesse Rennie Kay and Molly Quinlan Artwick.

Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson.

For Balin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt.

Script editing by Scott Allen.

Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins.

Production support by Avery Siegel.

Produced by me, Luke Lamana.

Executive producers are Mr.

Ballin and Nick Witters.

For Wondery, our senior producers are Laura Donna Palavota, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman.

Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan.

Managing producer is Olivia Fonte.

Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louie.

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