“Hey don’t knock the riding A.D.A. If you weren’t on call for the Integrity Bureau the night when I made that collar, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here together right now.”
Laurie hated when it was her turn to be the riding Assistant District Attorney; she could be paged at anytime of the day or night if a cop anywhere in Queens County made an arrest that fell under her Bureau’s purview. Reflecting on Galvin’s comment, she realized sometimes good things can come out of less than perfect scenarios.
“Point well taken.” She clinked her glass against his and they each took a sip.
Laurie grabbed Galvin by the hand and led him back to the couch. She placed a pair of coasters on the coffee table. They sat on the couch; Galvin at the corner and Laurie right next to him, her legs curled up underneath her. “We should make a toast”, she announced.
Galvin considered this momentarily. He then raised his glass. “To the riding A.D.A.”
Laurie let out a laughed and took a sip of her wine. She set the glass on the coaster and inched closer to Galvin when the familiar beep alerting her of a voicemail sounded from her cell phone. She debated on ignoring it; the night had been perfect so far and she didn’t want anything to interfere. I did say if it was important enough they’d leave a message. She begrudgingly excused herself and went into the kitchen to listen to the message.
Galvin sat alone on the couch waiting for Laurie’s return.
“That’s weird.”
“Is everything okay Laurie?”
She walked out of the kitchen with her cell phone in hand. She looked at the phone as she began to explain. “Yeah. It was the District Attorney. I didn’t think he knew who I was, let alone to call my cell phone.”
Galvin set down his glass of wine on the coffee table.
“Well, what did he say?”
“He just said to give him a call as soon as I got in. He left his home number and said it was important.”
“So, what are you waiting for?’
“…What if it’s bad news?”
“It won’t be,” he assured her. “Now, give him a call.”
Laurie nervously paced the kitchen floor as she carefully punched in the number that she’d copied down from the message. Galvin stood in the doorway which separating the kitchen and dining area. He was curious, and listened intently to the half of the conversation that he was able to hear.
“Sir…this is Laurie Bando. You said it was important and that I should give you a call back tonight as soon as I got the message?” She licked her lips trying to remoisturize them.
“…No, sir, you’re not bothering me.” She stopped pacing and instead leaned against the counter, staring at the ground.
“…Yes, I’d heard that he was trying to start his own practice, but I had no idea that he was going to resign so soon.” She looked at Galvin; her eyes widened.
“…I’ve never discussed the case with him, no…but I know some of the details…he was shaking down drug dealers in the Rockaways, and pretending to have search warrants to conduct illegal searches of drug safe houses. He then stole the drugs and sold them to other drug dealers.”
She placed a hand over her mouth; her jaw dropping. She was slowly shaking her head at Galvin from side to side in disbelief. “What? Me? I mean…of course I would!!
Yes, sir…I know it won’t be easy, but I give you my word…I’ll put my heart into it one-hundred percent!
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll get right on it tomorrow!! Thank you!”
She hung up the telephone and gave an elated smile. “Oh my God! Oh my God! You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me,” Galvin was curious.
“Okay. It seems that Mr. Hall, the Bureau Chief of the Integrity Bureau, resigned tonight. He was personally handling the Groff case, and the DA wants me to take it over—he even said that he’ll reassign all of my other cases until this case is over. Then—this is the most interesting part…are you ready for this?” Before waiting for Galvin to respond she continued, “he said that he wanted to remind me that there is an opening for bureau chief, as Mr. Hall resigned—and he said if I do a good job, he’d consider me for the position. He said he would possibly skip over the Assistant Bureau chief and make me the new Chief!” She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder in her excitement. “Can you believe that?!”
Galvin was elated for her—though the feeling was a bit mixed, as she would be prosecuting a cop. However, if he were as dirty as all of the papers made him out to me, he deserved whatever he got—after all, nobody hated a dirty cop more than an honest cop.
“That’s fantastic! Wait right here. Don’t move.”
Galvin quickly walked into the living room and retrieved the wine glasses. He handed Laurie her glass. Now for a real toast; here’s to you.”
She accepted the glass but before taking a sip she corrected him, “here’s to us,”
They each took a swallow of the wine and he pulled her close. He set his hands on her hips; she on his shoulders. Their lips locked in a long embrace as he allowed his hands to explore her body. She turned her back on him and tilted her head back as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. He nibbled on her ear as he first removed her blouse and then her brassiere. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he gently squeezed them. They were firm with hardened nipples. He spun her back toward him and they began to kiss passionately; their tongues exploring each other’s mouth. Laurie took him by the hand, leading him to the bedroom. They undressed with a sense of urgency. The black negligee tossed aside.
After making love for nearly a half-hour, the couple lay together, totally uninhibited. She ran her fingers through the hairs on his chest. Although neither of them had spoken, they both felt that tonight had been a perfect night, and nothing could change that.
*
“Keep your fucking hands on the wall! You understand me?!”
The man did as he was told; keeping his hands firmly against the steel gate of the corner bodega. “Yes, officer, mon, yes.”
Christopher Tatum couldn’t understand the lack of respect that the police get. He walked his steady foot post every day that he came to work on Linden Boulevard in the vicinity of Utica Avenue. Yet, some of the guys out on the corners would simply disrespect him by drinking an open beer or smoking a joint right in front of him, just as the Rastafarian he was searching had done.
Tatum pulled a brown folding knife from the Rastafarian’s pocket and placed it into his own back pocket. He carefully checked the man’s waistband and swept his hands across the man’s legs, from his waist to his ankles. He ran a hand across the man’s back and then grabbed the red, yellow and green knit cap from the man’s head and tossed it to the ground. The man’s three foot long dread locks which had been contained within the hat sprang free. Nasty, thought Tatum.
After completing his search and knowing that the man didn’t have anything on him that could be harmful, Tatum asked the man for his identification. The man handed him his New York State benefit card, Tatum then ordered the man to sit on the curb. A welfare card; what a shock. He probably bought his weed with it.
Tatum stood under the awning of the bodega, turning his body in such a way that the reflection of the street lamp off of the yellow and red awning provided enough light for Tatum to examine the man’s identification. Tatum took his cell phone from his pocket and called the precinct SP9 operator to run the man for warrants. Once the computer check was complete, Tatum began to write the man a summons, noting the time—it was already eleven-thirty.
As Tatum asked the man questions which he needed to fill out the universal summons, the Rastafarian informed Tatum that he was six feet tall and weighed a hundred and ninety pounds. Tatum looked the man up and down agreeing with the man’s depiction as Tatum was the exact same height and weight. Only Tatum felt that he was in much better shape and that his hair was certainly much better groomed. Tatum tore out the pink copy of the summons and handed it to the man, explaining that he had to appear in
court next month to answer to the charge or a warrant would be issued for his arrest.
“Next time, be a little smarter. If you see me coming, get rid of the joint.” Tatum continued to lecture the male. “Respect is a two way street out here.”
“Yes, mon, I’m sorry, officer,” the man said as he began to walk away. Then he stopped in his tracks turning back to Officer Tatum. “Officer mon, can I have my knife back?”
Tatum withdrew the knife from his back pocket and threw it at the man’s feet. Traffic was pretty light this time of night; even for a busy intersection like Linden and Utica. There were a decent amount of people and vehicles at the fast food chicken restaurant and some intermittent pedestrian traffic going into the all night bodega on the opposite corner but other than that, there were not a lot of people around. Most of the stores were closed.
Tatum started to walk away when he noticed what looked like a dark blue unmarked department auto parked in front of an apartment building on Linden Boulevard about fifty feet from Utica Avenue. He knew it wasn’t the Precinct’s Anti-Crime team; they didn’t have any dark blue unmarked cars. He strained to see who was in it. There seemed to be only one man inside; a white man. Since this area was less than one percent white, he decided that it may be Internal Affairs. Tatum would make sure that he didn’t leave his post early tonight. It’s a beautiful night anyway. I don’t mind being out here.
In truth, he didn’t mind being on a foot post—and he knew that Linden Boulevard was his. He also knew that he had to be careful because he wasn’t liked by the local drug dealers—he must have arrested close to a hundred dealers and users in the last couple of years once he was returned to full duty after his acquittal. Being alone made things a bit more dangerous but Tatum knew how to handle himself and was always sure to call for back up before taking any action if he sensed something amiss. He watched the car make a right hand turn off of Linden Boulevard.
“Disorderly in the division,” Tatum said into his portable radio—announcing in code to everyone on this radio frequency that Internal Affairs appeared to be present. Linden Boulevard had very few people walking the streets at this hour, but Tatum decided to stand out where he could be seen in case Internal Affairs was checking to see if he was on post. No sense in giving them an easy rip. If he was going to get written up for an infraction by Internal Affairs, it would be for something good, not for being off post or failing to make memo book entries. Tatum withdrew his leather binder containing his memo book from his back pocket, and as required, made entries regarding the Criminal Court summons he had just written.
He leaned back against the steel grating of a storefront under a street lamp where he was clearly visible. He was sure he’d be seeing that unmarked again; sometime within the next hour or so. His mind began to wander to the game of pool that he had been playing with the rookie, Schneider, when he came in for meal and the kid was on a break from t/s duty. The kid was pretty good, he was willing to concede. I still can’t believe he beat me at nine ball.
*
Tatum spotted the dark blue vehicle creeping up Linden Boulevard from the distance. He’s definitely looking for me. Tatum saw it slow down as it approached. He was now able to get a better look at the sole occupant—it was a well-dressed white male in his early thirties, Tatum guessed; undoubtedly Internal Affairs. He watched as the car pulled to the curb. Tatum decided to give the guy a hard time. The man leaned towards the passenger side of the vehicle as he lowered the window. Tatum watched from his position in front of the store; not flinching.
“Officer, can I speak with you for a minute?”
Tatum held his position for a couple of seconds just to irritate the man. “Are you lost, sir?” he replied as he slowly walked to the car.
“No,” said the man as he gazed at Tatum’s nameplate just to be sure. “No, Officer Tatum, I’m not lost. I’m Sergeant Boyle from the Internal Affairs Bureau.”
There was something that struck Tatum as odd about the man, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Okay, Sergeant Boyle. What can I do for you tonight?” His eyes. Tatum looked passed the man’s glasses, into his eyes. They just seemed a bit off.
The man seemed taken aback by Tatum’s sarcasm, but he wasn’t at a loss for words.
“Officer, may I see your memo book?
Tatum wondered what the rat had on him. I made memo book entries. I’ve been on post all night.
Then it hit him. The knife…the friggin knife. He saw me give it back to the Rasta. Shit, I should have just vouchered it. Tatum grew angry with himself. Procedurally, he should have confiscated the knife and issued the man another summons, or even arrested him for the possession of the weapon. It would have been a weak collar and drew the wrath of the midnight desk officer. The late tour Lieutenant was notorious for giving cops a hard time if they brought in trivial collars, but now because he didn’t, he was sure he’d be getting a rip.
He once again took the leather binder from his back pocket and opened it up to today’s date. His last entry was regarding the summons he issued for Unlawful Possession of Marijuana. Tatum’s head was buried in the book; trying to figure out if there was any way to make a quick entry regarding the knife—maybe saying it wasn’t a real knife and therefore he returned to the man. Realizing he didn’t have time to make this entry, he decided that this would be his defense when he fought the Command Discipline that he was surely about to be given. It wouldn’t be the first time he was put on paper and probably not the last, he figured.
Tatum reached into the open passenger side window to hand the supervisor his memo book. In his concern over the issue of the knife, Tatum never noticed the man withdraw the revolver from his waistband. By the time Police Officer Christopher Tatum noticed the gun, it was already too late. Two cop killer bullets ripped through his skull, ending his life instantly.
*
The cop’s lifeless body fell to the ground on Linden Boulevard, less than a block away from where he had taken his last official act as a New York City Police Officer. Underhill slowly drove away from the scene. Looking back in the rear view mirror, he could see the blood pooling around the dead cop’s head. His body laid half on the sidewalk and half in the gutter. Underhill looked down at the clock to note it was 2348 hours and 13 seconds.
Something else caught Underhill’s attention when he looked at the clock; Officer Tatum’s leather binder had fallen on the front passenger seat. Underhill considered this as he continued west on Linden Boulevard, heading back toward Bay Ridge. After driving for almost two miles, Underhill turned onto a side street, pulled over to the curb and exited the car. He studied the residential homes, scanning for any possible home surveillance cameras. Not seeing any, he removed the stolen license plate with the magnetic frame from the rear, uncovering his real license plate. He placed the stolen plate in his trunk; looking down at it. I bet the dealership I took this from has no idea it’s even missing.
His plan was ingenious, he thought. Firstly, his car is the same make and model as unmarked police cars, so cops are not going to stop him. Secondly, by attaching the dealer plates over his own, if there were any witnesses or cameras on the store fronts, they would capture the fake plate number, not his. He would snake his way for another mile or two using only side streets, wanting to avoid any cops going to the scene of the execution.
Underhill traveled through the backstreet of the Sunset Park area of Brooklyn until he saw a mailbox on the corner of a residential neighborhood. He pulled over at the corner and reached into his glove box. He removed a pair of latex gloves from the glove box, put them on, and then removed the letter which he had written earlier in the day, from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The execution had gone off without a hitch and he was sure that Brian McGregor would be happy to be receiving another letter from him.
He glanced back at Tatum’s memo book. Struck with a brilliant, yet sinister idea, he examined the memo book. He removed it from its leather binder and momentarily studied it. He had never seen o
ne outside of the black binder before. It was light blue with a dark blue spine and three holes on top allowing it to be put in the binder. In the upper center were the words City of New York, directly below in bold blue lettering POLICE DEPARTMENT. There was a serial number in the upper right hand corner—but most importantly to Underhill there was a caption—Name. Next to it, the handwritten words Christopher P. Tatum.
Underhill carefully slipped Tatum’s memo book inside the preaddressed envelope along with the letter to Brian McGregor. After sealing it, he got out of the car and placed it in the mailbox. If there was any doubt to the authenticity of the Blue Executioner, this would, without a doubt satisfy any and all skeptics. He crossed the street with the remainder of the leather binder, dropping it into a sewer. He removed the latex gloves and put them in his pocket.
He felt good about himself as he got back into his car. He studied his reflection in the rear view mirror. He liked what he saw. Underhill adjusted his tie before throwing the car into gear. He looked at the seat next to him; a small amount of blood. He would clean it as soon as he got home. Underhill kept to the back streets as he headed back to his Bay Ridge apartment with the satisfaction of another job well done.
############################
Chapter 7
Detective Second Grade, Jack Kuhn reached for a cup of water from his position on the witness stand. Kuhn was a skilled witness and had testified hundreds of times during his twenty-four years on the New York City Police Department. He carefully listened to the questions posed him by Assistant District Attorney Laurie Bando. He would not rush into any answer but instead took his time to consider the question before answering. Detective Kuhn, having been on the stand for over two hours now, sensed he was nearly finished as A.D.A. Bando began her redirect examination of him.
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