The events described in this chapter are presented as I experienced, observed, or came to understand them at the time, based on my training, professional judgment, personal interactions, and information available to me then and later. Where I describe the actions of others, those descriptions reflect my perceptions and beliefs formed through firsthand involvement and corroborating conversations, not legal conclusions. Some matters referenced were the subject of formal proceedings, others remain disputed or unresolved, and reasonable people may interpret the same events differently.
Meet Shield #349;
Collateral Damage
It’s time to introduce you to my friend, Christopher Hughes.
I’ve known Chris since he was a teenager, back when I watched him play baseball at the high school. I knew his older brother Brian even earlier—we fished north together, hunted small game, and spent time doing the kinds of things small-town boys do when they grow up around woods, water, and guns. Brian was hired first and was already an officer when Chris later transferred in from the Albany County Sheriff’s Department.
As a young man, Chris had a reputation for being firm—sometimes tough to the point of confrontation. I was never one for throwing hands unless there were boxing gloves involved, but for some people, that kind of physicality is part of how they grow up. As an officer, Chris represented what I believed was a solid mix in the making of a good patrolman. He is extremely intelligent, I’m not sure how his transcripts read. Wouldnt matter, my own were not a fair representation of my intelligence or abilities after all.
I could see good things ahead for him, despite the fact that he married young and had a child with a woman who would later create significant difficulty in his life. She was tough herself—a parole officer—and much of what followed is his story to tell, not mine. On a rare New Year’s Eve trip into the Adirondacks with a small group of coworkers and spouses, I saw glimpses of the man he was then. Knowing the person he is today, I’m sure Chris would admit that anger was one of his greatest faults. It controlled too many of his reactions and ultimately contributed to decisions that hurt him. I watched as that anger began to affect his career and slowly sent it into a downward spiral.
Chris had his eye on two positions: replacing our K-9 officer, or moving into the detective bureau. At the time, the last several detectives promoted had come from the Family Services Unit—juvenile officers or the DARE officer. Like me, Chris had growing issues with a couple of officers who always seemed to be “taken care of”—either because they were one of the boys or because discrimination claims provided political cover. In a department of around forty officers, it was inevitable that we would cross paths with the same people.
One promotion in particular marked the beginning of Chris’s real decline. The officer who had been placed into the DARE position was moved into an open detective slot. The vacancy came during the murder investigation of Peter Porco and the attempted murder of his wife—a case that forced the department to act quickly. Chris was passed over. Again.
At some point after that, Chris began trying to bring attention to what he believed were criminal behaviors occurring inside the department. He went about it in a way that was, frankly, both clever and reckless.
After approaching the union for help and getting nowhere, a series of unsigned, typed letters began appearing in union mailboxes. They were humorous, sarcastic, and pointed—describing questionable conduct by certain officers in a way that left little doubt about who was being discussed. Chris had admitted to writing them to management, since nobody else was willing to speak up. Plausible deniability is a survival skill, claiming responsibility is another. Chris and I understand both. I can’t say what happened to the copies I once had, but they absolutely belong in a book someday.
It took less than five minutes for one of those letters to reach administration. They were furious. Damage control began immediately. Chris understood that promotions were no longer coming under the current chief, and he became what people like to call “a problem.” Fighting City Hall became his identity.
Chris did himself no favors with some very public outbursts. His anger, his volume, his inability to disengage when all eyes were on him—it all mattered. Learning to stay calm while others are watching is critical. It’s one of the reasons I was able to maintain my composure years later, even when I had every reason not to.
Here’s the part that matters most: Chris can prove what he says. If he doesn’t have documentation, he has witnesses who are willing to testify under oath. He’s a terrible liar—maybe because he’s spent too much time telling the truth. That reality is what anchored me to him from the beginning.
And it’s why I am convinced that what happened to me years later was, at least in part, an intentional effort to paint me as an unreliable witness before I ever took the stand.
The night things truly crossed paths for us is etched clearly in my mind. Our fire department softball team had just won the championship, and Jimmy Cross and I were celebrating with friends at a local bar. Inside the dining area, I noticed a detective—formerly the DARE officer—sitting at the bar with Lieutenant Tom Heffernan. That mattered because later that night, the detective was called out on a rape investigation.
The victim never had a fair chance. She was a known alcoholic, had documented mental health struggles, and had been sexually assaulted as a child by a relative. Chris, already digging into departmental misconduct, began asking questions—connections between that night, that bar, and the handling of the case. He requested surveillance video. Whether he ever got it or whether it disappeared is anyone’s guess.
Around the same time, I was waiting—without explanation—for my promotion into Family Services. School was starting. DARE planning mattered. The delay made no sense.
The next morning, I heard that Lieutenant Heffernan believed I was the one who had “dropped the dime.” I went directly to his office and asked if the delay was connected. His response: “Well, did you?”
That moment told me everything.
Chris, meanwhile, was actively working cases and interacting with the same detective. What none of us fully understood yet was just how aggressively the department was willing to protect certain people—and how fast retaliation could come. Over the next several months, Chris’s mental health deteriorated. Eventually, he retired under Section 207-C disability.
If Chris had let it go, things might have faded. He might have found peace sooner. But he couldn’t stop. He began publicly exposing incidents he believed had been covered up—starting at the top.
One allegation involved a recorded phone call between the chief of police and the Albany County Undersheriff. On that call, the chief allegedly referred to Chris as “a ni**** in the woodpile.” The recording existed. The communications supervisor heard it. She was allegedly asked to delete it. By the way, I must acknowledge the strength and support Chris got from the beginning, from then Communications Supervisor Maureen Bartkus. I met Mo when I was first Dispatching and she was always like a great Aunt. Only ONE of two co workers I ever accepted calling me Davey. This Fall, Mo succumbed in her big battle and had to leave us behind. Her words, her support, and of course her memory, remains. When the spirits all joined, I can only imagine the conversations between Tony, John, and Mo….. reading this and saying “Imagine That????” Tony was an odd mentor,John an obvious one, I used to visit their graves often, I still do. I made a piece for Mo and sent it down for strength during her battle, my only regret was not having this piece complete soon enough. Say whatever you want about the language—it was stupid, inappropriate, and indefensible. But asking for the destruction of that recording was official misconduct. That part is not debatable. It was self-serving and illegal.
With time, resources, and nothing left to lose, Chris took his fight public. He towed trailers with signs. He drove around town making sure people asked questions. Some of it was effective. Some of it crossed lines and damaged his credibility. I told him so. He knows it now too.
Then came his arrest.
I’m not at liberty to discuss every detail, but it involved Chris attempting to obtain a retired officer badge—something he was entitled to and had been denied. He was arrested by State Police for possession of a forged document—the forgery allegedly being the chief’s signature. During the search of his home, all his electronics were seized. Evidence photos were later “accidentally” given to me, breaking chain of custody.
Chris believed—perhaps correctly—that bait was being set. He believed he could beat them at trial and expose even more wrongdoing. That calculation failed.
In May of 2012, Chris was convicted. He became a felon. More devastatingly, he lost the ability to possess firearms—something that had been central to feeding his family and defining his life.
I knew that information I possessed, had it been disclosed at the right time, could have derailed that case entirely. That knowledge has never sat well with me.
When I retired in April of 2013, I wanted no ceremony. No bagpipes. No Amazing Grace. Those sounds still make my skin crawl. Sitting across from Chief Corsi that day, he repeated over and over, “You’ll be fine, David. You’ll be fine.” He had just learned he lost qualified immunity related to Chris’s case. He couldn’t sit still.
What did he mean—I’ll be fine?
Did he know what I planned to disclose? Did he know what I already knew?
I told him I would be fine because the rules change the moment you walk out the door. Off duty, yesterday, you’re a rogue cop. Tomorrow, you’re a hero citizen. Remember that. It comes back later—they used it against me.
Chris is still fighting. He’s found healing. He lives quietly now. But this story isn’t over. The same names appear in both our lives, our cases, our consequences. Too few people know that.
I’m changing that.
One Little Slip, a whistle blowers story 