The Blue Executions

by George Norris

  She was proud to be part of this office—an important part. She let her mind begin to wander even a bit more. She thought that maybe one day, she could even become the first female District Attorney in the history of Queens County. She swiped her pass key through the reader on the right of the doors and pushed open the heavy glass door. She nodded hello to the secretary manning the reception area, where numerous police officers and complainants waited for the assistant district attorneys handling their respective cases.

  In her excitement, she had forgotten all about her lunch plans with Tommy. “A.D.A. Bando?” She turned to see that among the three police officers seated on the tan couch was Detective Tommy Galvin.

  Oh shit, we had a lunch date. How could I forget? She did her best not to seem surprised. The truth was she was very excited to see him. She wanted to share the details of her morning with him in the worst way.

  “Hi, Detective Galvin. It’s nice to see you.” She really wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a tight hug but she knew that she couldn’t. They had decided to keep their relationship a secret and she knew that it was best that way. “Thank you for coming in today. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  She felt excitement in the pit of her stomach as she quickly walked to her office. She discarded the case folder onto her desk and sat down in her chair. She reached into the top right drawer; retrieving a compact mirror and a make-up bag. She studied her reflection in the mirror, touching up her lipstick in the process. She applied a thin coat of base make-up to cover up a small pimple on her forehead. It was barely noticeable to anyone other than her.

  Galvin and Bando got on the elevator together—barely saying a word to each other. At one o’clock, the customary time for the entire court system to take their lunch break in Queens County, the elevator was overly crowded. Neither said a word until they walked out of the building. At least the rain stopped.

  They walked along Queens Boulevard—the crowd dissipated as they split into different directions. Sensing they were a safe distance from her co-workers,” so A.D.A. Bando, what can I buy you for lunch?”

  She bit her lower lip and gave him a playful smile. “How about, wherever you want…and I’m buying!”

  Galvin measured this for a moment. “Hmm, does this mean the hearing went well this morning?”

  “Better than I could have possibly imagined.”

  #############################

  Chapter 8

  Brian McGregor took a bite of his bagel, promptly washing it down with a sip of soda. He examined the front page of the Daily News. It depicted the I.D. card photos of the three police officers who had been murdered over the past six weeks. Superimposed over their faces was the crosshairs of a sniper’s scope. A chill ran down McGregor’s spine as he read the headline;

  HUNTED MEN!

  McGregor slid the state of the art computer screen over to the left on his desk, allowing for room to open the newspaper. He nervously tapped the fingernail of his index finger against the grey desktop, the noise, not heard by anyone other than himself in the spacious newsroom. He glanced around the newsroom where dozens of reporters sat at their own desk either typing or reading. There was nobody interested in what he was doing, yet he had a guilty feeling sitting on the story. He watched as his editor walked up the stairs to next level, adding to his self conflict. McGregor watched as Mr. Pantangelo emerged on the next floor from behind the red guardrail of the staircase. The architecture reminded McGregor of a modern mall with the open ceilings allowing for a balcony view from the floor above. With Pantangelo fading from his view, McGregor got back to the newspaper.

  He took another bite of the bagel before he began to read the article. He brushed the poppy seeds to the ground which had gathered on the newspaper. The hypothesis of the article was that the officers had been assassinated by an unknown person, or group of people. McGregor shook his head. If they only knew how close to the truth they really were.

  McGregor was slightly annoyed that his competition was running a story in which he had firsthand information, but a promise he had made to the Chief of Department kept him from reporting it. He was told that sitting on the article for a short time was in the interest of justice and could help to apprehend the killer. It was the morally correct thing to do he convinced himself. On the business end, he reminded himself that Courtney promised him an exclusive once the case was closed. He could live with that arrangement…at least for now.

  As he neared the end of the article, he read about the unwavering denial by Chief Courtney to there being any factual basis to the theory. He read the words carefully. “Chief of Department Edward Courtney was quick to point out that Police Officer John Casey had interrupted an armed robbery and he was shot to death in the commission of that crime. As for the last two officers, we are considering every possibility but there does not seem to be any connection at this time. The two murders do not appear to be linked.”

  What a crock of shit. He knows damn well they’re related.

  McGregor thought how coy the Chief was being by focusing on the one case that was truly not related. He wondered if this was a special set of circumstances or if the police lied to the press routinely—he was pretty sure that he knew the answer.

  McGregor threw the paper down of the desk with a purpose. He was angry. He drained the rest of his soda thinking about his promise. Clearly, Courtney was not being honest with the other members of the press, so why should I trust him.

  He didn’t know how much longer he should keep the story to himself. As it is, he knew that his editor would be furious with him if he knew about the letters. Other reporters were speculating—McGregor had facts. His scoop was slipping away from him…yet, he did give his word.

  A voice from the newsroom broke his train of thought. “Morning mail is in.”

  McGregor looked up to see one of the college interns place a small pile of mail on his desk. “Thanks Jimmy.”

  “No problem, Mr. McGregor.”

  McGregor discarded the empty bottle of soda into the trash can and brushed the mess that the bagel had left behind into the wastepaper basket. He rummaged through what he was sure would be the usual assortment of fan mail, hate mail, editorials and everything in between. One of the letters caught his eye; it was much thicker than the rest, heavier too. Lifting it up, he could tell that there was more than just a letter in there. Something’s not right.

  The thought that it could be a mail bomb, briefly crossed his mind. After all, if a sociopath could go around executing on-duty, uniformed police officers then it wasn’t that far of a stretch for someone to start a letter bombing campaign against the press. Then he realized that he was just being paranoid.

  Nevertheless, he was extremely careful while opening the letter. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and there was anxiety in the pit of his stomach—he just sensed something was amiss. There was an immediate sense of relief when the letter was opened without incident. The relief, however, quickly dissipated as he dumped the contents of the envelope onto his desk—along with a letter, was the memo book of Police Officer Christopher P. Tatum.

  Uneasiness quickly took over his body; his mouth went instantly dry and he became sick to his stomach. He pushed his chair back from his desk and had to fight the urge to lose his breakfast. There was something eerie about having the slain officer’s property on his desk. Not wanting to see it, he shoved it into his drawer and closed it. He stood up from his desk, trying to decide what to do. He nervously ran his hands through his hair as he paced the floor of the office.

  Once he regained his composure, he sat back down and decided to read the letter. He read it slowly; not wanting to miss any important details. He thought back to the instructions which Chief Courtney had given him. Any more letters from this guy, you need to call me immediately. McGregor took his cell phone from where it was clipped to his belt and snapped two pictures—one of the letter; the other of Tatum’s memo book.

  McGregor shoo
k his head in disbelief. He briefly contemplated speaking to his editor but decided that he would keep his word. He retrieved the business card that Chief Courtney had given him and punched in the number. His hands were trembling badly, making the simple task of placing a phone call difficult. The phone was answered on the third ring. “Chief of Department’s office, Captain Lewandowski speaking.”

  “Yes hello Captain,” McGregor’s voice seemed to shake a bit. “My name is Brian McGregor. I’m a reporter with the…”

  “I know who you are Mr. McGregor. What can I help you with?”

  McGregor felt the Captain had been rude, cutting him off, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. He decided to get right to the point. “I need to speak with Chief Courtney immediately.”

  Lewandowski, clearly not a fan of the reporter, spoke in a very patronizing manner. “He’s not in yet, Mr. McGregor. He’ll be in around noon. I’ll leave him a message that you called.”

  This was not acceptable. “No captain; this is an emergency. I want you to call him on his cell phone and tell him that I called.”

  Lewandowski, a veteran of the NYPD for over thirty years was not about to be ordered around by a civilian—especially not a reporter. “Mr. McGregor, I already told you, I will give him your message when he gets in.”

  “Wait…Captain, you don’t understand,” began the reporter, trying to plead his case. “Chief Courtney gave me this number and told me if anything happened to call him immediately…and something did happen. He’d want to know about this right now, not in a few hours from now…trust me!”

  Apparently not swayed, “I told you I would give him your message, Mr. McGregor and I will. Good bye.” The line went dead.

  McGregor was beside himself with frustration. He hung up the phone trying to figure out what to do until noon when Chief Courtney would get his message. He read the note over and over again, making sure that he wasn’t missing any important details. He was amazed at how sick the person who wrote this letter must be—the guy was actually trying to justify his actions.

  “Brian, you have a phone call on line two,” announced Doris Williams, another reporter in his team. He looked up in response. “The phone call…I think it may be a prank.”

  He understood why she might think that. After all, there would be no reason for her to think the Chief of the New York City Police Department would be calling him. Thank God that captain came to his senses and called Courtney.

  “Thanks Doris. Tell Chief Courtney I’ll be with him in a second.” McGregor did his best to sound insightful and mysterious at the same time.

  Williams had a confused look on her face and placed the call on hold. “Chief Courtney? It’s not Chief Courtney.”

  McGregor felt slightly embarrassed. He could feel his face go flush and his ears begin to burn. “Oh, sorry Doris. I’m expecting Chief Courtney to call so can you please just take a message and tell whoever is on the line that I’ll call them back when I get the chance.”

  She agreed and relayed the message to the caller. She waved her arm to get McGregor’s attention and once again placed the call on hold. “Brian, he says that he needs to speak to you right away. He says it’s urgent and that he’s sure you’ll want to talk to him. He said to tell you that it is the Blue E calling.”

  She said it with confusion in her voice but McGregor was not confused. It was totally clear to him. The color in his face went to pale and the nausea that he had experienced when opening the letter had once again returned.

  “Brian…are you okay? You don’t look well.”

  He took in a deep breath. “I’m fine Doris.” He forced a smile trying to convince her but remained in a stunned silence.

  “What do you want me to tell him Brian?”

  “Nothing Doris, thanks. I’ll take the call.”

  He stared at the phone for a few seconds before getting the nerve to pick it up. He once again drew a deep breath. “Brian McGregor speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Hello Mr. McGregor. What a pleasure it is to finally speak to you. I have been a fan of your column for many years now. I find you to be a very fair and reasonable reporter.”

  McGregor concentrated on the man’s voice. He believed him to be Caucasian but he couldn’t be sure. As the man spoke, McGregor removed a digital recorder from his top drawer and set it to record. He had no idea how well the recording would come out but he had to try. He was sure Chief Courtney would’ve wanted him to do his best to record the conversation. “Thank you for your support Mr…?” He let it hang out there hoping the man would reveal himself.

  “Just call me the Blue Executioner,” he replied. “Have you received both of the letters that I sent you?”

  “Yes…yes I did. As a matter of fact I just received the second letter only a few moments ago.”

  “Good. I assume the blood on Officer Tatum’s memo book had time to dry?”

  The thought was repelling to McGregor, yet he forced himself to open his desk drawer to examine the memo book. He stared down at the brown stain; he hadn’t really noticed it earlier. McGregor didn’t want to have a conversation with this man but he knew it would be best to engage his as look as possible. “Yes. It’s dry.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doris Williams attempting to get his attention. He looked over as she was holding the receiver of a telephone out to him. She whispered, “This time it is Chief Courtney.”

  As quickly as his hand would allow, McGregor scribbled ‘tell him I’ll call him back—get a number’ on a pad and held it out to her. Doris appeared thoroughly perplexed but complied with McGregor’s wishes.

  He turned his attention back to the phone call. The voice on the other end on the line continued. “Good. I’m glad you received them. I sent the memo book this time so you knew that I wasn’t trying to take credit for someone else’s work. I must offer you an apology. I should’ve sent you a memento from officer Long as well so you knew that my first letter was not a prank. I assume that you must have thought it was a prank since you never made mention of me or the letter in your column. Am I correct Mr. McGregor?” quizzed the man.

  Unsure how he should respond, McGregor just went with it. “Yeah, well to be perfectly honest, I thought it was a prank. You have no idea the types of letters I receive here.” He hoped the man would accept this excuse.

  “That’s what I figured. Well I want you to know that you have my permission to print both of those letters in their entirety. I believe your readers have a right to know that there is someone who will avenge the average citizen when they are brutally murdered by those who have been empowered to protect them. Any police officer, who commits a murder and then hides behind their badge to justify it, is no more than a murderer—that badge means nothing. I will be back in touch with you in a few weeks after the next blue execution. Good bye Mr. McGregor.” With that, the line went silent.

  “No! Wait, don’t hang up!” pleaded McGregor. “Are you still there?”

  He was not.

  “God damn it!” McGregor slammed the phone down in a fit of anger. He buried his face in his hands momentarily; when he looked up he noticed Doris Williams and a couple of the other reporters staring at him. His anger gave way to embarrassment. The other reporters returned to their own business except for Williams.

  “Is everything okay, Brian?”

  He spoke softly. “Yeah Doris, thanks. Did Chief Courtney leave a phone number where I can reach him?”

  She handed him a page torn out from her notepad with the number scribbled on it. “He seemed to be pretty taken aback that you didn’t take his phone call right away. That must’ve been some phone call for you to keep the Chief of Police on the back burner.”

  McGregor ignored what he took to be a subtle hint to find out what he was up to. He accepted the phone number from her and thanked her without explaining his actions. He stood up and began to walk toward a vacant editor’s office.

  “I think you should know Chief Courtney
didn’t seem to be pleased that you didn’t take his call immediately.”

  “Thanks Doris. I appreciate the heads up.”

  McGregor closed the door behind him and made the phone call. Courtney picked up on the first ring. “Chief Courtney.”

  His mouth, once again dry, “Chief Courtney, this is Brian McGregor. I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call before but I was on the phone with him.” McGregor felt a mix of excitement and queasiness. “He called me here at the newsroom.”

  Courtney apparently wanted to be sure he was not misinterpreting what the journalist was telling him. “Who called you?” Courtney demanded.

  “You know who Chief. I can’t talk here. There are a lot of eyes on me right now. There’s something else too. He sent me another letter with something else enclosed in the envelope. Can I meet you somewhere? Now…if at all possible?”

  “Meet me in my office in one hour. I’m coming from home.”

  *

  Courtney hung up the phone after McGregor agreed to meet him. Although the reporter never gave a hint as to what was enclosed in the letter, Courtney had an uncanny feeling that he knew what it was —the only piece of property belonging to Police Officer Christopher Tatum that was not recovered at the scene of the homicide—his memo book.

  The thought of a serial killer targeting uniformed police officers was surreal; even to New York City’s highest ranking uniformed officer. Courtney stepped out of the shower, toweled off and shaved. He stared at himself in the mirror; searching his eyes for a way to convince the reporter not to take the story public. The circles under the bottom of his eyes were darker than days past. Sleeping had become a challenge. Courtney thought staying home until noon today might allow for him to catch up on some much needed rest; clearly that plan did not come to fruition.

  He put on a beige suit with a light blue shirt and a tan and light blue striped tie. A quick study of himself in the mirror, and he decided that he was presentable. He left his Westchester home and got into the passenger side of the dark blue unmarked department auto. He bid good morning to the first grade detective that was assigned as his driver and immediately got onto his cell phone. He called his office with specific instructions; to have his top council—the same group of men that met with him the last time Brian McGregor came to the office—report there forthwith.