The Blue Executions

by George Norris

  *

  Standing behind the rank-and-file uniformed officers were the detectives who had opted not to wear their uniforms to the funeral. They instead wore the trench coats that had become the earmark of a detective in the New York City Police Department. Standing behind all members of the police department were the hundreds of civilians who had either come to pay their respect to a fallen hero, or those who had just been passing by and had become engulfed in the excitement.

  From where he stood, on the west side of Fifth Avenue, a man in a tan trench coat listened to the commands. He was almost directly across the street from the church’s entrance, and took note how sharply the officers had broken their salute—their white gloves had fallen to their sides at almost exactly the same moment. He watched as the officers slowly broke the formation and headed in every direction. It was a shame that such a beautiful ceremony was wasted when a young man—a hero—sacrificed his life. Ceremonies such as this should be saved for happier occasions—such as promotions, or giving out medals, the man reasoned.

  This was the first time that he had ever attended a police officer’s funeral, but he had seen footage of all too many of them on the news over the years. To be there in person was much more devastating…unforgettable. The man shifted his weight from one leg to the other—he had remained in the same location since the beginning of the funeral, and he had resolved not to move until he had seen its end.

  Through his pale gray eyes, he could clearly see the entrance of the church from where he was standing. The man removed his right hand from the pocket of his trench coat and patted his waistband, wanting to ascertain that his revolver was exactly where it should be. Pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose, he ran a hand through what was left of his receding brown hair.

  He was not very large in stature, and believed himself profound. He began to wonder what would drive one human being to kill another, and furthermore, what would drive one human being to kill a police officer. Their very duty was to uphold the law, to protect people—and while not all police officers were honest, he found it hard to fathom the idea of a police officer breaking the law. They swore to uphold it, yet some disregarded their oath and went astray.

  Deciding that his research would afford him the answers to those questions, he decided to expel them from his mind, no longer allowing them to irritate him. Eventually, he would publish his journals, but only after all of his work was complete. Then, he would be recognized—as he well should be—as one of the greatest criminologists of all time.

  His thoughts had occupied his time as he noticed the officers were falling back into formation. The man studied the thousands of police officers walking around. Surprisingly, he hadn’t recognized any officers from his own Brooklyn neighborhood. He saw officers from many jurisdictions, some as far away as Boston. It was a fitting tribute.

  The command of attention was once again barked through the megaphone. Looking down at his watch, the man noted the time—it was exactly 11:49 and thirty-six seconds. The crowd became instantly silent, standing motionless. The front door of Saint Patrick’s opened, and the Mayor of the City of New York led the procession out.

  *

  Tommy Galvin, standing at attention, watched the doorway of the church. The Mayor was the first to leave, flanked on either side by the Police Commissioner and the Cardinal of New York’s Archdiocese. The other dignitaries followed. Parting to the left and right, they all made way for the family. Galvin could see Karen as she left the church—she was holding a handkerchief to her face, wiping away the tears; her little boy, sobbing. Lindsay, who was also in tears, was being carried out by one of her grandparents. The children were frightened and they had every right to be. He fought the urge to shed his own tears.

  “PRESENT ARMS!”

  Galvin saluted his fallen comrade and friend for the last time as the pipers softly played taps. He watched as the coffin, draped by the American flag, was carried out by the pallbearers. As the coffin was loaded into the hearse, tears rolled down the face of many an officer who had come to pay their last respects.

  It was always at this point of a cop’s funeral that every officer in attendance realized his own mortality—after all, it could have been any one of them lying there in a casket only because they had been doing their job. In a sense, it was them who lay there. Every time a police officer is slain in the line of duty, there’s a part of each officer who dies inside.

  There was a chilling wind—almost as if on cue—as the back of the hearse was closed. The sea of blue, lined up along Fifth Avenue, held their salute as the family entered the limousines. The dead silence was broken by the starting of the engines. The helicopters could be heard in the distance as they made their approach.

  *

  The wind sent shivers down the man’s spine. He tightened the strap on his trench coat as he watched the seven helicopters from the New York City Police Department fly overhead, low to the ground. The formation they flew in was reminiscent of birds flying south for winter—an overwhelming sight. He watched the helicopters for as far as the eye could see until finally, they fell from sight behind New York’s many skyscrapers. He then turned his attention back to the front of the church where a dozen marked highway cars began to lead the procession. Their lights were captivating. Directly in front of the hearse, were three police officers on horseback carrying the color guard. He recognized two of the three flags immediately; the flag of the United States and the flag of the City of New York. The third one he was unfamiliar with. It resembled the American flag, except its stripes were green and white and its stars were in a circular pattern.

  It annoyed the man that he could not identify it; he would have to conduct an investigation. He momentarily thought about taking a picture of it with his cell phone, but then he realized that doing so would be disrespectful to the fallen officer. He would not dare disrespect the hero officer. He had earned his admiration. The hearse traveled slowly along Fifth Avenue with the bagpipers marching alongside. Before long, the sound of the bagpipes faded into silence, and the procession disappeared from sight. There was a momentary pause.

  “On behalf of the family of Police Officer John Casey and the New York City Police Department, I would like to thank you all for your support.” The officer with the megaphone paused.

  “DETAIL DISMISSED!”

  Not moving from where he had stood for the last couple of hours the man watched as the mourners began to disperse. It was now exactly 12:13 and fourteen seconds he noted as he watched the police officers walk in every direction. Some of them entered bars, and others got into their cars to return to their homes or their precincts. The man stood patiently waiting. He began to twist an NYPD ring that he wore on his right hand.

  After the crowd had thinned substantially, he began to walk to the nearest subway station. As he walked through the crowds of uniformed officers, he saw that there were officers as far as the eye could see. He descended into the nearby subway station—which judging by the sheer volume of officers was likely the safest place in the city right now.

  It was unfortunate to have lost a hero officer like John Casey, the man reflected. From everything he’d read on line and in the newspapers, Casey had been a model officer. He was assigned to the plainclothes Gang Unit. It was one of the most dangerous details in the police department, as they arrested people carrying illegal handguns and committing violent crimes. They targeted gang members who sold drugs and poisoned the community. They were going after the scum of the city, the scum of the earth. Being in such an elite unit, must have meant that John Casey had been one of the finest officers in the entire department.

  As the train pulled into the subway station, the man’s thoughts were momentarily sidetracked. He was one of the first to enter the crowded car and saw a few empty seats. At first, he declined to sit down, noting how many officers were also entering the train. As they were brave men and women who did a dangerous job, he felt that the least he could do was to let them sit d
own on the train—or so he felt, until he considered the mission in which he was about to undertake. It was at least as dangerous as a police officer’s job.

  Contemplating this, he quickly walked over to the last remaining seat and sat down. The train was packed as it pulled away, headed towards Brooklyn. The man studied the faces of the officers that he was sharing a ride with—they were mostly young men in their twenties and thirties. He finally recognized a police officer from his resident precinct. The man smiled and nodded. The officer nodded back in recognition. The man loosened the strap of his coat, put his head back, and relaxed. He had a dangerous night ahead.

  *

  When the funeral had ended, Tommy Galvin sought out Pat Dempsey, making sure to say goodbye. Galvin stuck out his hand. Dempsey grabbed it and pulled him in for a hug. “Take care Uncle Pat. I love ya.”

  “I love you too, Tommy. You stay safe out there okay.”

  “I will Uncle Pat, you do the same.”

  Dempsey let out a laugh. “Don’t worry about me Tommy. Even with the knuckleheads that the job is hiring today, they aren’t too dangerous when they come in to Applicant Investigations.” He paused and smiled. “Paper cuts are all I have to worry about these days.”

  Galvin shared the laugh. He knew that Dempsey was one of the most hailed detectives in the entire police department, yet he was buried in the Applicant Investigation Unit. He had gone from tracking down murderers to investigating Police Officer Candidates—an obvious waste of his talents. It wasn’t uncommon for the department to retaliate against officers who bucked the system. Although the department did have a strict no retaliation policy on paper, the rule was often circumvented if you angered a supervisor with enough pull...or a high enough rank.

  After saying their goodbyes, Galvin began to walk away when Dempsey called back out to him. “Hey Tommy, you never called me after the Sergeant’s test last week like you promised. How’d you do?”

  “Sorry Uncle Pat. I think I aced it!”

  “Good for you kid; your old man would be proud.” Dempsey threw him a wink and pointed accusingly at him. “Just don’t think when you get promoted, you can be my boss. I don’t listen to rookies.”

  *

  Tommy Galvin got into his 2010 Jeep Wrangler, stepped on the clutch and turned the key. After the car jumped to life, he took the restricted parking permit off of the dashboard and put it in its usual spot, behind the sun visor. He allowed the Jeep to warm up for a moment before pulling out onto Fifth Avenue. He once again thought of his friend. It was hard to believe that he was really gone.

  The traffic was particularly heavy due to the funeral, and it was already 1:30 by the time Galvin reached the entrance to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. He was glad that he didn’t have to travel into Manhattan every day like he’d had to when he was a rookie. While he had liked working in Manhattan, he certainly didn’t miss the traffic and the tolls.

  After the toll plaza, the traffic let up. It felt good to get up to sixty miles per hour after having to sit in nearly a half-hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Galvin debated stopping at his Bayside apartment before going to work but quickly dispelled the thought. None of his neighbors knew he was a cop and he wanted to keep it that way. It was better to go to work a little early than to go home in uniform and announce to them what he did for a living.

  He thought about John again; it wasn’t fair that his life had been cut so short. He debated whether he should call Karen and offer his condolences, or simply let her be. The last thing he wanted to do was bother her.

  Galvin turned off the radio and drove in silence, thinking how he—just like John had done—would go to work tonight and put his life on the line for the people of the city he had sworn to protect.

  ############################

  Chapter 2

  Tommy Galvin’s jeep made a right hand turn from Guy R. Brewer Boulevard onto Baisley Boulevard. He was fortunate to find a parking spot almost directly in front of the South Jamaica stationhouse. Gazing at the clock on the dashboard, he realized that he wasn’t due to report for duty for almost an hour and a half. After parking the jeep, he picked up his hat and memo book (which lay on the seat next to him) and got out of his jeep.

  He looked up at the two-story building where he had been assigned for the majority of his career. The bricks had faded to a dull shade of beige and the windows were filthy. In the second floor window where his office was located, he observed cigarette smoke bellowing from an open window. Not too many of the detectives in his unit smoked, so he knew that either Walters or Kaufman were doing a day tour. He climbed the five stairs, which were set in between two pillars bearing 113 Pct. on either side. He stared at the black bold letters to the right of the main entrance.

  THE CITY OF NEW YORK

  POLICE DEPARTMENT

  Once inside, Galvin walked past the reception area where nearly a dozen civilians were waiting to file police reports, varying from lost property to sexual assault. Not too busy today, thought Galvin, as he passed through a set of double doors leading to the front desk and muster room where the outgoing third platoon would soon be having roll call. Instinctually, he looked behind the four and a half foot tall, brown wooden desk, to see which supervisor was in charge of the precinct this evening—Lt. Jenkins. He’s a good desk officer—the four to twelve’s are lucky to have him. “Hey Lieu, how’s everything going?” said Galvin, offering a wave.

  The Lieutenant briefly looked up look enough to return Galvin’s greeting. Then he returned his attention to making the necessary adjustments to the roll call for the outgoing platoon. Two cops from the day tour stood in front of the desk with a prisoner waiting to be logged into the command log. Lt. Jenkins handed the officers a pedigree card to be filled out so he could make the necessary entries. The arrestee, a black male in his late forties, rested his head on the silver metal railing which stood about a foot in front of the large desk. Galvin looked at the clock on the wall above the desk. Someone’s making money tonight. Galvin used to love the end of tour collars, they meant a lot of overtime.

  Galvin walked past the desk making his way to the arrest processing room. He took a peek inside of the cells, curious to see if any of his friends were in there. The six foot long desk in the processing area was littered with paperwork from previous arrests as well as unused arrest reports and assorted papers scattered about. In the back corner of the room, next to the fingerprint and booking photo machine, was a garbage pail full with discarded papers as well as lighters and shoelaces; no doubt confiscated from arrestees. The cell door was ajar and vacant, although it wouldn’t be for very long—it never stayed empty for too long in this precinct.

  Upon exiting the arrest processing area, Galvin stopped to talk with some of the patrol officers who were getting ready to turn out for the four-to-midnight shift. Calling it a four to twelve when the cops actually worked three to eleven thirty never made any sense to Galvin. It was just one of the many things that didn’t make sense on this job, he joked to himself.

  “Hey, Tommy, how’s it going?” inquired one of the officers, who were waiting on line to get his portable radio.

  “Not bad, Eddie. How ‘bout you?”

  “Pretty good, thanks. Listen Tommy, I was wondering if you could maybe help me write up the gun collar that Mike and I made the other night. I was hoping to get a medal for it, maybe an Excellent Police Duty.”

  Galvin gave the young officer a playful tap on the shoulder. “For you, Eddie? Sure. A pick up gun collar should be at least an EPD.”

  Galvin had taken a liking to Eddie Dwyer. He was a young and energetic officer, one who had been making some rather impressive arrests. He reminded Galvin of himself when he’d only had three years on the job. Galvin figured Eddie would be a shoe-in for Anti-Crime when he had a little more time on the job. Not only was he a good cop, thought Galvin, but he was in great physical shape. Dwyer was only five feet, eight inches tall but he had a chiseled frame of 180 pounds of all muscle. Instead of tak
ing a meal break, Dwyer spent his down time working out in the basement gym. It seemed to Galvin, that almost every time he was down there working out, so was Dwyer. Dwyer’s light blue eyes and short blond hair, coupled with the fact that he was very soft spoken, could lead one to believe he was soft. Seeing him work out, Galvin knew anyone making this assumption was way off.

  “Just bring in all of the paperwork on the collar when you come in for meal,” Galvin continued. “I’m working until one o’clock tonight.”

  “Thanks a lot, Tommy. I really appreciate it.”

  Galvin was amused that so many young officers came up to him when they needed help in writing up a medal. It did make sense though—after all, he had more medals by far than anyone else in the precinct. In his ten years of service, Galvin had been awarded departmental recognition for excellent arrests and heroism in the line of duty in excess of seventy times. He felt a sense of pride when (on the rare occasions when he did wear his uniform) he would notice the other officers staring at his medals. In particular, he noticed many rookies—most of whom he didn’t even know would make an excuse to walk past him, just to get a peek at them. Galvin’s medals had earned him the nickname “the rack” throughout the stationhouse.

  Galvin walked into the now vacated muster room, where the officers had just stood for roll call. He walked past the five rows of blue chairs where the officers routinely sit during training, to get to the vending machines. He bought a bottle of water, dropping a quarter as he did. It echoed as it hit the beige tiled floor and rolled behind the machine. Upon hearing a slight commotion, Galvin looked through the large windows in the front of the muster room facing the front desk. The prisoner at the desk was now throwing up. He shook his head. Somebody is going to be earning their money tonight with that perp.