The Blue Executions

by George Norris

  There was another knock at the door. Upon Chief Courtney’s invitation, the door opened and the Inspector entered with a second male. He was a medium-framed man with tight, curly brown hair and a mustache to match. He wore a grey sports jacket over a white shirt and red tie. He carried a black attaché case in his left hand and promptly introduced himself to the Chief of the Department. The Inspector excused himself and Brian McGregor was invited to take a seat at the conference table. After McGregor occupied a previously vacant spot at the table, he was formally introduced to all the chiefs by Chief Courtney. It was worth noting that in the presence of outsiders—especially the media—Courtney appeared completely genial, unlike the tyrant that he actually was.

  “So, Mr. McGregor, I understand that you know something about the assassination of Officer Long which you feel may be of assistance.”

  “Yes, Chief. I believe I do. But…I did want to speak to you in private.”

  “Mr. McGregor, I assure you—anything you can say to me is trusted with all of these men. These are the top men in the entire Police Department and they were all hand-picked and trusted by the Commissioner.”

  “Very well, then,” began McGregor as he opened his attaché. He was careful to put on plastic gloves that were inside. He then removed a letter and an envelope. He read the contents of the letter to all at the table. The men at the table listened intently to McGregor’s every word. They met the letter with mixed emotions—if it were genuine, they now had a lead on the investigation, but that would also guarantee at least another attempted murder on the madman’s part. The very idea of it instilled fear into the hearts of every man present—after all, regardless of rank, they were all cops. Most importantly, this legitimized the urgency for a swift arrest in the case.

  McGregor concluded reading the letter to the top echelon of the police department. He then put the letter down and removed the rubber gloves. He stared momentarily at his captivated audience. He then focused on Chief of Department Eddie Courtney.

  “I wouldn’t waste your time if I didn’t believe this was legitimate. In the mail room, I receive hundreds of letters a week. Many of them are pranks. I don’t think this one is. I have an eerie feeling that whoever wrote me this letter is the killer.” McGregor paused, licking his lips. “I have no idea how many people handled the envelope, but I assure you as soon as I opened it and realized it might be legitimate, I’ve handled it only while wearing gloves. I’ve also made sure no one else touched it. So, if there are any fingerprints on it—other than my own—it may be the killer.”

  “Good thinking, McGregor. How many copies of this are floating around?” asked Courtney.

  “This is the only one. I didn’t make any copies. I was afraid the copier machine could destroy any fingerprints if I tried to make a copy. I did take a picture with my cell phone but nobody else—not even my editor—knows about it”

  “I wish more of my detectives thought like you,” said Courtney through a forced smile. “Would you mind if I had one of my detectives fingerprint you, Mr. McGregor? This way, we can eliminate your fingerprints from any others we find on the letter.”

  “Of course not, Chief. I’m just glad to help.”

  “Thank you. We appreciate this,” Courtney said before motioning to his Chief of Detectives. “Ray, why don’t you have Mr. McGregor taken downstairs to be fingerprinted and have someone from Major Case sent up to dust the envelope and letter for latent prints.”

  Santoro picked up one of the many telephones on the conference table and complied with his orders. Inspector Finch walked back into the office to escort the reporter downstairs. The two men walked out of the office when McGregor suddenly stopped.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I need the letter back after you’ve dusted it so I can make the deadline for the early edition of the paper tonight.”

  “You can’t print this letter, Mr. McGregor. I don’t want to start any unnecessary panic among the public,” argued Courtney. The two men debated their respective points of view for about ten minutes before reaching an agreement. They ultimately agreed that McGregor would keep the story under his hat for the time being and when the story did break, he would get the exclusive story, including an interview with the detective who solved it. It was highly irregular to promise any reporter an exclusive interview, but Courtney knew this reporter had him over a barrel. If push came to shove, Courtney had no legal grounds to prevent McGregor from printing anything he wanted, including the letter. Courtney shook McGregor’s hand and thanks him for his cooperation as the Inspector showed McGregor out. After the door closed, Courtney sat back down at the table.

  “Goddamn reporters!” Courtney said to no one in particular. He was used to being the one to call the shots and making deals meant compromise—something he hadn’t done in years. He stared down at the letter as it lay on the conference table. He was careful not to touch it as he silently read the words. He shook his head as he looked up at his men.

  “The Blue Executioner. Gentlemen, I have a real bad feeling about this. We’ve got to get this guy—and quickly. I’m going to inform the Commissioner about this right away. Counting him, there will be only the handful of us who will know about this letter. If there are any leaks to the press about this…I promise you that I will find out the source of the leak and have him demoted back down to the rank of Captain before he knows what hit him. Is that understood?” His voice had been stern, but softened. “The last thing we need is for the press to learn that we may have a serial cop-killer running around out there.”

  Each man in the conference room sat in disturbing silence, occasionally gazing at one another as the implications of a serial cop-killer sank in. “God forbid it,” was whispered in the barely-audible voice of one of New York City’s top police chiefs.

  ###########################

  Chapter 6

  Almost a month had gone by since Underhill had executed the first of what he was sure would be many corrupt police officers. It was also almost a month since he’d mailed the letter announcing his presence to the NYPD and Brian McGregor. Underhill’s patience was wearing thin as he was sure he had informed the reporter that it’d be okay to print the letter. Yet, every morning when he opened his newspaper, it had yet to appear. Even his column on-line had failed to mention anything about the blue executioner. The only logical explanation would be that McGregor had never gotten the letter—unless of course, McGregor had thought it was a prank. That must be it. That oversight would surely be corrected after the reporter receives his next letter—where he will take responsibility for the murder of Police Officer Christopher Tatum in the name of the Blue Executioner.

  Gazing at his wristwatch, he observed that it was twenty-one minutes after four. It was as good a time as ever to start his investigation to locate Tatum. It wouldn’t be very difficult, he assured himself, not for a man of his intelligence—it would only take a few phone calls. Underhill consumed the last piece of turkey from his TV dinner and threw the remains in the garbage. He then washed the fork and the glass he had been drinking from—he hated mess, and consequently, his apartment was always spotless. He counted the change in his pocket, making sure he had enough for the public pay phone. After all, even at this early stage in his undertaking, it paid to err on the side of caution.

  Underhill went into his bedroom and retrieved his .38 revolver from its usual place, the top drawer of his nightstand next to his bed. He tucked it securely into the waistband of his blue jeans and pulled a pale blue sweatshirt over it. He gently pulled at the base of the sweatshirt, making sure that the gun would be undetected. Grabbing a light jacket from the coat rack near the front door, he exited his Bay Ridge apartment. It was a sunny spring day, with a gentle, yet cool breeze. It had rained most of the last few days and Underhill didn’t like the rain. He didn’t like the way the grey skies made him feel. The late afternoon sun felt good against his face. He breathed in a deep breath, taking in the smell of the blossoming flowers in the air. H
e felt rejuvenated today. It was the perfect day to carry out his next execution.

  As Underhill walked up to Fourth Avenue, he sought out a payphone. He would walk for nearly two miles, passing numerous phones until he decided that it was far enough away from his apartment in case the police were to trace the call. He hoped that Christopher Tatum still worked at the sixty-seventh precinct as he’d done when he had committed that murder. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and punched in the number to the precinct.

  *

  Pete Schneider sat alone at the telephone switchboard in New York’s Sixty-Seventh precinct. He, like most rookies, didn’t want telephone switchboard duty; he wanted to be out on the streets making arrests, especially in a busy precinct like this one. It was clearly the busiest precinct in Brooklyn South and it was a great place to learn the job. Tonight, however, was the third night in a row that Schneider had the unenviable task of t/s duty. There would be no learning the job tonight. It was boring and it would be one more night without getting to be out on the streets where he wanted so badly to be.

  People were always calling the t/s to report that there was a stolen car parked down the block, or that there was a particularly loud party going on or asking to speak with the desk officer; who had given specific instructions not to bother him with any nonsense. The most challenging part of the night would be coming up with new excuses as to why the patrol cars had yet to be dispatched to these respective locations as of yet. It had been a quiet evening so far, thought Schneider as he glanced at the stationhouse clock. It was five minutes to six—he was going to be relieved for meal soon. Naturally, right then, the phone rang. Dutifully, Schneider picked up the receiver.

  “Six-seven, Officer Schneider, can I help you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, you can. I was wondering if Chris Tatum is working tonight?” asked the voice.

  “Yeah, I just saw Chris going out on patrol. He’s doing a six to two. Can I take a message?”

  “No, but you can tell me what sector he’s in tonight.”

  Schneider paused, becoming slightly suspicious. Something didn’t seem right.

  “Who is this?” he curtly demanded.

  “This is Sergeant Boyle. I went to the Academy with Chris, and I just got transferred to the seven-one. I’m on my way home, so I thought maybe I’d stop by and see him.”

  Schneider relaxed a bit. He’d been taught to always help out a brother officer, and he was even a bit nervous about having been so abrupt with a boss. More experienced officers may have tried to verify Sgt. Boyle’s information by asking him for a tax registry number, or by calling the seventy-first precinct. Pete Schneider, however, was not a more experienced cop.

  “Sorry, boss, um, Chris isn’t in a sector. He’s in Community Policing. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He’s out on his regular beat on Linden Boulevard. You know Chris; the shittier the post, the better. He’s always making really good collars—he loves it out there.” Schneider had been eager to help out a boss. Any boss that is friends with Chris must be a good guy.

  “Thanks a lot, Schneider. Do me a favor. If you see him, don’t tell him I called. I want to surprise him on the post,” explained the voice.

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pete Schneider hung up the telephone and felt good. He hoped Sgt. Boyle wouldn’t tell Tatum how obnoxious he had been at first. Schneider then signed off the telephone switchboard log and went to meal as a twenty year veteran of the New York City Police Department came on to replace Schneider for his meal hour.

  *

  Underhill hung up the phone, feeling satisfied. It had been even easier than he could have envisioned—in fact, he was certain he could have gotten Tatum’s home address, had he asked for it. Underhill slowly strolled back to his apartment as a light rain began to fall; a sun shower but nevertheless it annoyed him. He debated what the next step in his scheme would be. He hardly knew the area, but based on Schneider’s description, it sounded busy. Underhill felt his best course of action would be to wait until around midnight. He was confident things would die down by then; even in such a busy precinct.

  After arriving back at his apartment, he removed the revolver from his waist. He opened the cylinder and ejected the rounds; replacing them with the cop-killer bullets which he kept in the dresser drawer. He placed the gun on the nightstand next to his bed. After opening his closet, he selected his navy blue suit for the execution. Along with it, he selected a white shirt and red tie—blood red. He laid the outfit out on the bed and decided that it was—altogether—perfect for tonight’s mission. It was the same suit he wore to John Casey’s funeral…and Daniel Long’s execution.

  *

  Laurie Bando and Tommy Galvin walked out of the German restaurant on Myrtle Avenue; their arms interlocked. It was a beautiful spring evening and the couple decided to talk a walk after dinner. “That was delicious! They make the best sauerbraten. Do you go there often?”

  Laurie shrugged her shoulders. “Actually,” she said, “this is the first time that I’ve ever been there. But I’ve wanted to go since I first moved into my apartment—one of the other assistants at work strongly recommended it.”

  They continued to share stories of their families and jobs as they strolled slowly along Cooper Avenue, hand in hand. Laurie noticed a group of young men drinking beers in front of the cemetery on the left. If she were with anyone other than Tommy, she may have been alarmed by the men or even a little spooked by the cemetery but this was not the case. She felt safe with Tommy. She knew just from the type of cop that he was, that he knew how to take care of himself. There was something about him that put her at ease and made her feel secure.

  They had been seeing each other quite often over the past few weeks, whenever their busy schedules would allow. She’d never dated a cop before, and though she knew that his hours would be a challenge, she felt that he was fascinating. She’d known many police officers, but none quite as active or sharp as him—not to mention as sweet or sincere.

  They made their way back to the block of the restaurant where Galvin had parked his Jeep. “It’s still early,” Galvin said, looking at his watch. It was twenty to nine—more than enough time to catch a nine o’clock showing. “You feel like catching a movie?”

  Laurie had decided that tonight might be the perfect night to take their relationship to the next level. She squeezed his hand a little tighter, giving a playful smile and a wink. “Nah, I was thinking that maybe we could go back to my place.”

  Galvin saw the gleam in her eyes and hoped he wasn’t misreading her signals. “Sounds good to me,” was the only thing he thought to say before he unlocked the passenger side of his jeep and gave her a peck on the lips before she got inside.

  It didn’t take long for Galvin to arrive at Laurie’s Maspeth apartment. It was located on 63rd Street, only a few blocks north of the Long Island Expressway. She unlocked the door and they walked into her apartment with a bottle of wine, which they’d picked up on the way. Galvin studied the apartment. It wasn’t a very large apartment but it was spotless and nicely decorated. He wondered if she was always this neat or had she cleaned up because she knew that she was going to invite him to come inside. The layout of the apartment was L-shaped, with the dining room attached to the living room. Based on the high shine of the wooden floors, Galvin guessed she must have had them refinished shortly before moving in.

  She invited him to have a seat on the sofa while she turned on the television for him. He made sure to sit on the corner of the sectional directly in front of the television. He removed his cell phone from his belt, fearing it could scratch the black leather, and placed it on the glass coffee table in front of the couch. He flipped through the channels, settling on the Ranger game.

  “Be out in a sec.” Laurie excused herself as she went into her bedroom. She took the black negligee that she had purchased earlier in the day from Victoria’s Secret out and laid it on the bed. She looked a
round the room to make sure everything was in order. Once the room met her approval, she decided not to change just yet; she would wait to see how the evening panned out, although she had a pretty good idea.

  Galvin had been looking at the photos of her with her family on either side of the television on the black entertainment center when she emerged. He noticed she was still wearing the same blue jeans and pink blouse so he wondered why she had went into the bedroom. She flashed him a playful smile as she went to the entertainment center and put on a playlist of soft rock music from her Ipod. Galvin, taking the hint, muted the television as he stole a peek at her hips. She fills out a pair of jeans nicely, that’s for sure.

  She motioned for him to follow. “Come help me out in the kitchen.”

  Galvin followed her passed the mahogany dining room set and made a left into the kitchen. It was a small kitchen with stainless steel appliances and light colored cabinets. Laurie searched through one of the drawers for a corkscrew. “Do me a favor; grab a couple of wine glasses from the top left cabinet.”

  Galvin complied. He took the corkscrew from her and opened the bottle of wine. He poured her a glass first and then himself. Laurie was excited but also a bit nervous. She hadn’t had a serious relationship in quite some time. Just as Laurie put the glass to her lips her cell phone went off, startling her. She spilled a small amount of the merlot onto the counter—the red color, a sharp contrast to the cream colored counter top.

  She giggled at her clumsiness as Galvin grabbed a paper towel from the counter to the left of the sink and dabbed up the spillage. Laurie retrieved her cell phone from her purse and studied the number. It wasn’t familiar. Not tonight. She wanted tonight to be special and didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message. I’m not riding tonight, so whoever it is can wait.”