The Blue Executions

by George Norris

  He thumbed through the book until he came to the article concerning Police Officer Daniel Long’s arrest and indictment on charges of murder in 2010. He glanced at the photo of Long, accompanying the article. He hadn’t changed a bit—at least, up until last night, when Underhill had snuffed out his life with three cop-killer bullets at close range. Underhill felt no remorse. Long did not deserve to be a police officer. Furthermore, anyone who would shoot an unarmed youth to death under the guise of being a police offer did not deserve to live. Underhill hadn’t been able to believe his eyes when he’d read the follow-up article in 2012, detailing how Officer Long had been acquitted of all charges during a bench trial.

  The judge who presided over the case had stated that although the youth was unarmed at the time he’d been shot, Officer Long had every reason to believe that he’d been armed with a gun. He cited that a robbery victim had pointed out the youth as the male who’d just robbed him at gunpoint. When Officer Long had approached the youth, he’d turned on him with his hand in his pocket. Officer Long, believing the male to be armed, feared for his own life and fired his gun in self defense.

  Self defense, what a joke? The kid was unarmed. Long was never in danger. Self defense is when you are in danger.

  The Judge had surmised that while it was tragic that a young man had lost his life, Officer Long had acted to preserve his own life. It had been justifiable homicide—and thus rendered a not guilty verdict.

  Underhill had been in as much shock as reading the words in the newspaper the next day as he was while watching the verdict unfold live in the courtroom. He remembers watching as Long hugged his lawyer and then his wife; he watched as the murderer walked away, a free man, literally getting away with murder—until last night, that is.

  Underhill put the articles concerning Long’s murder on the page of the scrapbook he had reserved for it—right next to the article about Long’s acquittal. He then opened his diary to yesterday’s date. Directly under the entry regarding Police Officer John Casey he transcribed:

  March 22, 2013---2341 hours and 27 seconds

  Rogue Cop Daniel Long Executed

  It wouldn’t have bothered Underhill so much if Long had been convicted. He knew that Long wouldn’t have gotten the death penalty—although he felt he deserved to — but for the murder to go unpunished was not acceptable. He turned his attention to the back of the diary and crossed Daniel Long’s name off a list entitled “Murderous Cops Awaiting Execution.” It was not a long list—comprised of four names, all belonging to cops who had been arrested and acquitted at trial (or who had failed to be indicted when they should have) within the last few years.

  He turned his attention back to the scrapbook and sought out the article which concerned the next name on the list—Christopher Tatum. He read the article to refresh his memory, although he knew the details inside out—Tatum had also been acquitted of murder charges. The man he’d murdered had died of asphyxiation after Tatum had applied a chokehold on him. Once again, the judge had ruled in the cop’s favor, claiming that there had been a violent struggle and citing the evidence of injuries suffered by the officer. Underhill couldn’t understand how this officer could brutally murder a man being arrested for a simple assault. The law had decided not to punish him, but no matter; Underhill would ensure that Tatum did not go unpunished.

  Underhill glanced over at the article written by McGregor yet again, lamenting that he could not put the officers that had been written about in his ‘hero’ column. He liked to keep track of all officers—good and bad. Underhill had been reading McGregor’s column for years, and found him tough but fair. Underhill estimated that, over the years, McGregor had published an equal amount of favorable and unfavorable articles regarding the police—proving that he was unbiased and leading Underhill to believe that McGregor would believe in his own theories.

  Underhill put on a pair of thin latex gloves before opening the legal pad that he’d bought the day before. The snug fit on the latex irritated his skin, but he was well aware it was necessary to avoid leaving fingerprints or DNA on the note or envelope. He wrote the date on the upper right hand corner of the page and addressed it to Brian McGregor. He first expressed his admiration of McGregor’s honesty and unbiased opinions of the Police Department. He then explained how cops who turn themselves into murderers betray the trust that the public has placed on them, as well as the oath of office that they had sworn to uphold. They, therefore, must be held to a higher level of accountability than a civilian. He went on to explain that PO Casey, who had recently lost his life, was a hero for all other officers to emulate—he’d given his life for the city he’d sworn to protect. Daniel Long, on the other hand, was a cold-blooded murderer who was never punished for his crimes. He chose his words carefully before putting pen to paper.

  I am not proud of the actions that I was forced to take but I do deem them necessary. I’m sure you will agree. We must rid our society of these evil men, who hide behind the shields of New York City Police Officers to escape punishment for crimes that they’ve committed. My mission has only just begun. I am aware that the true heroes of the police department will be looking for me as they do not realize the importance of my mission. I am not the type of person they habitually arrest, however. I am far intellectually superior to anyone they have ever dealt with. I shall leave no clue behind. Mr. McGregor, I would like you to feel free to print this letter verbatim. With hope, it may serve as a deterrent to those who think of crossing the line. My mission is not one of revenge—this, you must understand. My goal is to clean up the NYPD and deter any cops from engaging in criminal activity. Once my vision is realized, all who did not agree with or understand my methods will see the error of their ways. They will understand what I have achieved. I will write to you again, in the near future, after I have eliminated my next target.

  Sincerely,

  The Blue Executioner.

  #############################

  Chapter 5

  Chief of Department Edward Courtney stood at the head of the conference table. He was sorting quietly through the numerous reports that he’d been given in regards to the prior night’s murder of Police Officer Daniel Long. Courtney looked around the table; the rest of the hierarchy had appeared for the nine a.m. meeting. After removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes and stood without saying a word. Everyone seated at the table watched with baited breath as the highest-ranking uniformed officer paced the floor silently—they were awaiting him to bark out instructions, some sort of order. Everyone in the police department knew of Courtney’s reputation. He was a demanding leader, who often demanded answers and results before it was feasible to have any. As the highest ranking member of the department, he had to answer only the police commissioner—everyone else had to answer to him.

  The fourteenth floor conference room, adjacent to the Police Commissioner’s office at Police Headquarters, was completely silent—an ominous feeling in the air. The highly polished conference table was large enough to easily seat over twenty people; less than half the chairs were occupied. Although the chairs were made of fine leather, nobody in the room was comfortable. Nothing was being said as they sat there, but nobody would dare look on the wall where a live stream of over thirty sights across New York City was being broadcast, nor would they look at the televisions on the opposite wall tuned to local and national news stations. They would sit there in silence until the situation dictated otherwise. These were men, each of whom had at least twenty-five years experience with the NYPD and were selected by the Police Commissioner, himself, for their position. None of that mattered right now, as they were at the mercy of the Chief of Department.

  Courtney stopped pacing and stood by his chair. Over his shoulder could be seen the emblem of the five star shield of the Police Commissioner on the wall. At six foot, three inches tall, he was taller than everyone in the room. With everyone else seated at the conference table and him standing, it made the height difference that much more dispara
ging. His brown eyes methodically moved from one person to the next until he’d stared directly into every pair of eyes in the room. His narrow face reddened as the eerie silence continued.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “we have a dead cop on our hands. He wasn’t shot while interrupting a drug deal, or while breaking up an armed robbery…he was executed. And I want to know why and by whom. I will not tolerate incompetence in this investigation. I want answers. Not these bullshit reports you’ve insulted me with so far!” scolded Courtney as he slammed his fist down on top of the reports which he’d just read through.

  “I don’t give a shit about canvasses if nobody saw anything. I don’t want to read more reports that tell me somebody heard three gunshots but saw nothing! I already know there were three gunshots. Officer Long’s skull can bear testimony to that. I want to see reports that tell me something I don’t know—like who killed Officer Long—and why! Is that understood!?” Each of the chiefs of police in attendance dropped their eyes, looking down at their notes in front of them regarding the cop killing.

  Nobody dared to say a word. They all avoided looking directly at the enraged Chief of Department and just slightly nodded their heads in agreement; most thumbing through the case file. The first one to meet Courtney’s eyes was the Chief of Patrol, Joseph Heider. He was newly assigned to the position and didn’t know Courtney as well as the rest of the Superchiefs did. Everyone in the room, who knew Courtney, knew better than to look him in the eye when he was on a rampage. They knew once Courtney caught Heider’s eyes, he wasn’t going to release them until he was good and ready.

  “Chief Heider,” Courtney began. “Can you tell me why my officer was executed?”

  “No, sir, I cannot.”

  “Can you tell me what the motive was?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Chief Heider, you are the Chief of Patrol, are you not?” Courtney said, his face growing red with anger; a sharp contrast against his white hair.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Officer Long was assigned to patrol, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, Chief Heider, can you tell me what you are doing to aid in the investigation of the execution of one of your men?” demanded Courtney.

  The atmosphere in the room was tense. Courtney continued to lash out at Heider, who couldn’t possibly have any satisfactory answers for him. The rest of the men felt bad for Heider; nevertheless, they were definitely glad that it wasn’t them getting chewed out.

  “Well, sir,” began Heider, attempting a feeble excuse. “I just became aware of the details of the case about three hours ago. I haven’t had much time to do anything yet, and I was awaiting your instructions.”

  “That’s not good enough! One of our men…one of your men has been murdered, and I want to know why.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Heider in a barely audible voice. It was demeaning for Heider, a thirty-year veteran and a well respected member of the department, to be scolded in such a manner—it was as though he was a schoolboy being detained after class. If there was anything positive to come from the confrontation, it was that Heider now knew to avoid eye contact with Courtney when he was angry.

  “Chief Heider,” Courtney began. His mood softened. “I want you to look into every arrest Officer Long ever effected or assisted in. I want you to find out if he was ever the recipient of any kind of threat as a result of an arrest. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Courtney then turned his attention over to Robert O’Keefe, the Chief of Inspectional Services and all internal affairs.

  “Bob,” Courtney began in an even tone. “I want you to look into every civilian complaint or Internal Affairs allegation that was ever filed against Officer Long. Comprise a list of all of the complainants and what the allegation was. But most importantly, I’m sure everyone in this room is aware that Long was acquitted of a murder charge a last year. I want your office to do a thorough investigation on the family and friends of the perp that Long shot.”

  “You got it, Chief. I’ve got my men working on it already.”

  Ray Santoro, the Chief of Detectives, was next. Santoro, unlike the others, had no fear of Courtney. Aside from the fact that they’d come on the force together in the mid 1980s and had been friends for many years, Santoro was also the most competent of the Superchiefs. He didn’t need instructions to know what to do and how to do it. Courtney sat back down in his chair, glancing at Santoro.

  “Ray, it’s your men who are eventually going to break this case. I want your finest first grade Detectives to assist the detective who caught the case. Use your discretion. If the catching Detective isn’t making progress, reassign the case. I want it solved as quickly as possible.”

  Courtney paused and picked up a report from in front of him. “From reading the reports, I can see that there were no shell casings recovered at the scene. To me that suggests the killer must have used a revolver; there’s not a killer crazy enough to stick around and look for spent shell casings after murdering a uniformed police officer. Wouldn’t you agree, Ray?”

  “Yes, I would, Eddie,” Chief Raymond Santoro replied. He was the only one of the chiefs who would dare to call the Chief of Department by his first name. As the Chief of Detectives, Santoro was the only officer in attendance not to be wearing his uniform. Santoro was an impeccable dresser, wearing tailored suits and fine Italian shoes. Although the two men had the same amount of time on the job, if anyone were to look at them side by side, they would think Santoro was at least ten years Courtney’s junior. There wasn’t a hint of gray visible anywhere in his dark brown hair. Insiders of the department feel between his well polished looks and charisma, Santoro has the best chance of all of the Superchiefs to be the next Commissioner. “I’ve already assigned four of the best first graders in the department to aid in the investigation.”

  “It’s refreshing to see that not all of my chiefs have to wait for instructions,” commented Courtney as he threw a glare in Heider’s direction. Courtney then focused his attention back on Santoro. “It’s my understanding that three .38 rounds have been recovered. Ray, I want you to give them a call and have every .38 revolver and every .357 revolver (since .38 bullets can be fired in a .357 revolver) recovered in this city tested for ballistic fingerprint matches. If they find a near match I want the gun retested to make a hundred percent sure it’s not the gun before we eliminate it. I want—”

  “Eddie, before you go any further,” interrupted Santoro. He loosened his lilac and navy designer Duchamp necktie. “I think there’s something you should know; there are no ballistic fingerprints.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Courtney. “Were the rounds too deformed to be put under a microscope? Did the guys at ballistics screw up the evidence or something? What exactly do you mean, Ray?”

  “No, the evidence is completely intact.”

  “Then, why is there no ballistic evidence? We all know every gun in the world has distinctive ballistic fingerprints after being shot—it’s impossible there are none.”

  “Last night, after I heard about the murder, I took the liberty of ordering our best ballistics expert in from home. I wanted him in particular because he’s been a first grade Detective assigned to the Ballistics Squad for almost twelve years. He’s seen it all, Eddie.”

  “Get on with it, Ray,” Courtney snapped, his patience wearing thin.

  “Well, this detective informs me that he’s never seen anything quite like these three spent rounds. He said there is not one bit of ballistic fingerprinting on any of them.”

  “That’s impossible,” roared Courtney. “He must’ve been drunk. Every gun in the world, even homemade zip guns, has ballistic fingerprints! They’re imprinted on the gun as it spins from the barrel; no two are alike. ”

  Santoro was confident that he knew at least as much, probably more, about rifling than Courtney did. Not wanting to argue with his boss and longtime friend, “I’m only
telling you what I was told, Eddie,” said Santoro, exasperated by the lecture.

  “Have someone else examine them then.”

  “I already have. Three detectives, all ballistic experts, examined the rounds this morning when they came into work. All three of them corroborate what the first detective said—no ballistic fingerprints. There was no evidence of rifling whatsoever.”

  Courtney paused, flustered, before giving his next order.

  “Well, if these so-called experts can’t find any trace of fingerprints, I want the evidence sent to the FBI’s forensics lab forthwith. Let them take a look at it. Maybe their high-tech equipment can find what ours can’t,” Courtney ordered, beginning to pace the floor again.

  The tension in the room thickened until there was an abrupt knock at the door. Courtney’s eyes narrowed, as if he were about to size up the enemy. Everyone in the room breathed a collected sigh of relief as it was apparent that whoever was on the other side of the door would be on the receiving end of Courtney’s wrath. This would get them off the hook, at least temporarily. Courtney opened the door, revealing an Inspector in uniform. The Inspector appeared nervous at having to interrupt the meeting. A couple of the men in the room recognized the Inspector—he generally served as Courtney’s right-hand man.

  “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances?”

  The Inspector quickly whispered his explanation to Courtney, who immediately questioned him.

  “What specifically did he tell you?

  The Inspector leaned in and whispered into Courtney’s ear, shielding his body from the others in attendance.

  Show him in,” Courtney said before turning to address the chiefs. “There’s a reporter outside who tells Inspector Finch that he may have a lead on Police Officer Long’s murder. He wouldn’t tell him any more than that. He insisted on speaking directly to me.”