The yank at his belt caused Galvin’s heart to skip a beat. Oh shit! Looking down at his now empty holster, a terror he had never known invaded his body. He’s got my friggin gun!
Disarmed, Galvin realized he was now literally fighting for his life. He had the advantage of being on top and needed to use any advantage he could find as the man had a firm grip on Galvin’s service weapon. Galvin was no longer aware of the steady stream of blood dripping from his nose or the pain that accompanied it. He had tunnel vision—focusing in only on the nine millimeter handgun that was bent on ending his life. He needed to find a way to neutralize this man or he would die this very day in the courtyard of the Baisley Houses.
Galvin grabbed repeatedly at the man’s left hand but could not control it. The man kept squirming and trying to find a way to point it at Galvin’s head. Galvin used his position and gravity as he leaned forward into the man. He started to slightly overpower the man, pushing the hand and gun to the side. Galvin let up his leverage ever so slightly to make a play for the radio in his back pocket—anything he might be able to use as a weapon at this point could be the difference between life and death. Galvin took control of his radio just as the gun started to come back up in the direction of his head.
*
Darrin Jackson, the paroled drug dealer, owed three more years to the state. He had absconded from parole and knew that he was a wanted man. What he didn’t know, was if the detective knew about the parole warrant, that he had drugs on him, or, if he knew that he had shot and killed a rival drug dealer last night on Sutphin Boulevard. Jackson made a conscious decision that he was not going back upstate. He was done with prison. It really didn’t matter what the detective knew at this point; Jackson had chosen this path and would fight to the death if necessary.
He wished to himself that he had been carrying the gun which he used last night. If he had been carrying it, he would have shot the cop before he even had a chance to get out of the car. But the fact was that he didn’t have that gun. There was however, another gun within his reach. If he could get to it, he might be able to get away. He saw the detective raise his hand above his head to deliver the blow. He had his opportunity.
When Jackson felt the detective ease up, he seized the opportunity to make his move. Snatching the officer’s gun had not been that difficult—he had actually practiced such moves in Elmira State penitentiary. The problem was the officer was very strong and had the leverage on his side as well. Hope seemed lost as the gun was being forced down at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the detective’s partner running towards them. Then for some unknown reason, the detective’s weight lessened against his arm. Jackson once again seized the opportunity and brought the gun to face level and fired.
POP!
*
“10-13! Shots fired central! Foch and Brewer in the courtyard in front of 116-80,” screamed Middlebrook into the radio as he ran; gun in hand to his partner’s aid. He was less than twenty feet away when the shot was fired—he felt helpless.
Middlebrook watched the fierce struggle ensue as he ran as fast as his legs would take him to join in the fracas. He had watched as his partner was disarmed—he was pretty sure Tommy didn’t even know it was happening. Middlebrook had drawn his own gun but there was no way that he could take a shot. He was too far away and Tommy and the perp were in such close quarters, twisting and turning on the ground, that Middlebrook would stand just as much a chance of shooting his partner as he would the bad guy. Sheer terror had engulfed Middlebrook as he saw the gun being raised to his partner’s face.
The single gunshot resonated off the buildings in the courtyard. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for Middlebrook. He wasn’t sure how Tommy had managed to knock the man’s arm to the side just as the shot was being fired but he silently thanked God that he had been able to do so. He then watched as Galvin struck the man with the portable radio across the top of his skull with seemingly as much force as he could muster. The perp immediately went limp—Galvin’s gun falling harmlessly from his hand. The fight was over. Galvin rolled off the top of the man and quickly recovered his gun, putting it back in its holster. He could see Galvin was breathing heavily. The two of them rolled the unconscious body of the man over and placed handcuffs on him.
*
A large crowd started to gather. Galvin needed to regroup and reflect on what had just happened but there was no time for that. He could hear the sirens in the distance closing in. That was always a comforting sound in situations like this. Galvin and Middlebrook rolled the man over onto his back to search him to make sure he did not have any weapons. Once the man lay on his back, Galvin saw the man’s eyes roll back into his head. A thick white frothy like saliva was coming from his mouth; attaching itself to his light beard and mustache. The man’s body started convulsing. The first of the uniformed officers arrived on the scene as the crowd began to intensify. This is bad.
The crowd was getting loud. They were shouting things at the cops, although Galvin was too preoccupied to hear what they were saying. He reached for his radio on the ground to see it in two pieces—the body had separated from the battery. Galvin reached over and took Middlebrook’s radio from his back pocket. Galvin was clearly still out of breath as he transmitted in to the radio. “113 Squad to central. Have the units slow it down but keep them coming. We have a large crowd forming. Also have a bus respond forthwith along with the patrol supervisor.”
Central dispatch responded with a question of his own. “What’s the condition for E.M.S.?”
Galvin recognized the voice of the dispatcher as a supervisor he had met on numerous times. It wasn’t uncommon for this particular supervisor to get on the radio whenever a real serious police related incident happened and Galvin was glad to hear his voice. The dispatcher continued, “Do we have any members of the service injured at this time 113 Squad?”
Galvin, either chose to ignore his likely broken nose or had forgotten about it, responded back, “negative at this time central.”
The tension between the police and the crowd intensified as they waited for the arrival of the ambulance and got even worse when the man stopped convulsing and simply went limp. More and more cops arrived, pushing their way through the ever growing crowd. Galvin could now hear some of the comments the crowd was yelling.
One of his friends began “Uncuff him yo!”
Another joined in, “he needs help, why aren’t you helping him?”
Still another, “That D.T. killed him. This shit wouldn’t have happened in a white neighborhood.”
The words started sinking in. Galvin’s head was spinning. He was being yelled at, threatened and cursed at from every direction. He put two fingers against the man’s neck. No pulse. This is bad…this is really, really bad. He felt a hand grab him on the shoulder. He looked to see his old partner, George Lambert. Over Lambert’s shoulder he could see the ambulance crew making their way through the crowd.
Thank God the ambulance is finally here.
Lambert, aside from being Galvin’s old Anti-Crime partner was also a union delegate and was used to dealing with cops in precarious situations. He put his arm around Galvin and ushered him towards the street where the radio cars were parked. He gave Galvin very clear instructions. “Don’t say a word to anybody about what happened here until I meet you at the hospital. Do you understand me Tommy? Not a word to anybody, not to a boss, not to a doctor, not to the friggin Pope if he shows up. You got that?”
Galvin got into the car. “Not a word, I got it,” he mumbled.
Lambert to the cop driving the car, “Get him to the hospital and make sure that he doesn’t talk to anyone. He seems a bit out of it.”
As Galvin looked out of the window to the ambulance crew, a light seemed to go off in his head. He knew what had to be done. He got back out of the car and fought his way back through the crowd with Lambert attempting to stop him. Galvin called out to a young E.M.S. technician who was busy trying to resuscitate the man.
“Take his temperature,” Galvin directed.
The EMS member shot Galvin a confused look as he continued to work on the subject.
“Just do it!”
The technician complied with Galvin’s directive as his partner continued in vain to revive the man. The technician looked at Galvin, once he was finished reading the thermo scan. “108,” he said.
Galvin let out a sigh of relief. He spoke in a more demure tone. “Thank you.”
Lambert grabbed Galvin sternly by his upper arm, escorting him back to the waiting police car. “Get him the hell out of here now,” Lambert barked to the driver of the car.
Galvin got into the back seat, watching as the crown began to swell. He could see a few skirmishes begin to break out between some members of the crowd and the officers. He didn’t want to leave while it was still such an unstable environment but he knew that it was best he did. He heard the borough-wide mobilization being called and knew that there would be over one hundred officers on the scene within minutes.
Galvin was briefly startled as he heard a bang at the rear of the police car. Galvin spun around; looking out the back window to see an irate man of about twenty years old banging on the back window. “Murderer!”
The man began calling other people over to the car as uniformed officers pulled the man back. “Yo, he’s in the blue and white! They tryin to hide his murdering ass!”
Galvin watched the man being thrown to the ground by two cops from the precinct as the car began to roll away. Galvin’s head was spinning; it all seemed so surreal, yet he knew his career had just been cast into turmoil. He sat silently in the car, ignoring the questions from his fellow officers about his well being, as they edged through the crowd. Suddenly the front windshield cracked on the upper passenger side. The car was being pelted with rocks and bottles being hurled from the roof tops as well as from street level. The last thing Galvin saw before the car was able to safely leave the scene was the EMS crew loading the unresponsive body of the perp into the ambulance.
Galvin remained silent and emotionless on the ride to the hospital. Over the ten minute ride to the hospital, Galvin replayed the incident over in his head repeatedly. He monitored the radio transmissions; feeling completely numb.
“We’re receiving numerous calls of shots fired at the location,” began the radio supervisor. “Do we have any shots fired at, or by, any members of the service at the location?”
Galvin immediately recognized George Lambert’s voice as the officer who responded. “Be advised central, we have one shot fired at a member of the service. There were no shots fired by anyone other than the perp. Show the M.O.S. and sector Adam out to Long Island Jewish for trauma to the member of the service.”
“Any injuries at this time?” the dispatcher further inquired.
“Central, just keep the units coming here, the situation is not yet under control.” A large commotion could be heard in the background.
As the police cruiser pulled into the parking lot of Long Island Jewish Hospital he finally heard Lambert’s voice once again come over the air. “Central no further needed to Foch and Brewer. Everything is under control. We have numerous males under arrest to the station house for assault on police officers—all minor injuries at this time.”
Galvin was relieved to hear that the situation was under control and more importantly that there were not any police officers who were seriously injured. Galvin knew that he was only doing his job but he would have felt horrible if any of his fellow cops were seriously injured because of an incident which he precipitated.
He exited the police car to walk into the hospital when one final set of radio transmissions caught his attention.
“Can any unit advise the condition of the perp from Foch and Brewer?”
A chill ran up Galvin’s spine as he anticipated the reply.
There was a short pause before an anonymous officer responded. “The perp is dead on arrival at Jamaica hospital.”
############################
Chapter 10
Edward Courtney sat alone in his fourteenth floor office at Police Headquarters in lower Manhattan. He read over the unusual occurrence report or the U.F. forty-nine as it was known throughout the department, concerning the incident involving Detective Tommy Galvin yesterday evening.
Courtney reflected on the prior night. He had barely even walked in the door when his cell phone went off; his initial reaction was that the mad man who called himself the Blue Executioner had struck again. An odd feeling of relief had actually taken over his body when he learned of the incident where a highly decorated detective was involved in a struggle which caused the death of another man. Courtney clearly did not grasp the seriousness of the situation at first—he had become so engrossed with keeping the serial cop killer from the front pages of the papers that he temporarily lost focus on the rest of the department.
Courtney continued reading the report, sipping at his coffee as he did. The unusual was longer than most other forty-nines he had read over his thirty plus years in the department—yet he was careful to read every word of every paragraph. It was the fifteenth and final paragraph that caused him the most concern. The paragraph consisted of one lone sentence but that sentence had ruined many careers before his in the past. It simply stated; ‘There is a great deal of community unrest as a result of this incident (see accompanying U.F. 49).’
A wave of anxiety crashed over Courtney’s body as he picked up the second unusual occurrence report. It was considerably shorter than the first but much more volatile. He read the entire report in less than five minutes. It detailed the events that unfolded after the deceased man was taken from the scene and the detective involved was removed to the hospital. Rocks and bottles had been hurled at police officers from the buildings as well as numerous physical confrontations with the unruly crowd. Seven police officers had been injured in the melee—the injuries ranged from lacerations and contusions to a fractured wrist and hand. Thankfully, there were none more serious than that. There had also been sixteen people arrested on a variety of charges from Disorderly Conduct, Inciting a Riot and Assault on a Police Officer. A Borough wide mobilization had to be called to restore order.
Fuck me! This is just what I need on top of the Blue Executioner.
Courtney could feel his chances at becoming the next Police Commissioner slipping away from him if he didn’t do something to regain control. He finished his coffee as he examined the photos as well as the sketch prepared by the Crime Scene Unit. A quick assessment led him to believe that the officer had acted appropriately but he couldn’t say that publically. He had to see how things played out in the coming weeks and months. The actions of one detective—right or wrong—could not get in the way of his career.
Setting the reports aside, he took off his glasses and set them down on top of his desk. He rubbed his already reddened eyes. The more he thought about things, the angrier he became. It wasn’t fair, he decided, to have to deal with both a serial cop killer and now a potential racial powder keg in a community whose support he’ll need if he is ever to become the Commissioner.
Courtney got up to refill his coffee when there was a knock at his door. “Enter.”
Inspector Finch walked through the door with the morning editions of all of the local newspapers folded under his arm. Finch closed the door behind him. He outstretched his hand offering the papers to Courtney. “Here you are Chief.”
Courtney accepted the papers and looked his long time assistant in the eyes. “How bad is it John?”
“I haven’t read them yet Chief. I brought them directly to you,” lied Finch.
“Very well then, pull up a chair and we’ll read them together.”
Finch complied, as Courtney once again donned his reading glasses. He spread the papers across his desk and scanned them quickly. The first paper, much to his relief, had the story of a fire in the Bronx killing three people. He was not so lucky with the next newspaper however. There was a photo on the
front cover, more than likely taken from someone’s cell phone on the scene. It depicted police officers in riot gear at the South Jamaica Housing Development striking a man with their batons. The caption below the photo explained that a small riot broke out on the scene where a police officer had killed an unarmed man during a confrontation. The headlines of the paper;
BATTLEGROUND
Courtney opened the paper and read the article on the next page. It was written by a reporter named Doris Williams. The article detailed the official version of the events which led up to the death of Darrin Jackson and the subsequent civil unrest. Courtney noted how the reporter was careful to point out that this version of events was based on a statement released by an NYPD spokesman. She was also quick to point out the number of eyewitnesses with differing accounts of the incident.
Williams wrote of her interviews with three different men who were with Jackson just moments before his death. Tyrone Walker, who identified himself as a construction worker, gave the following account which was backed up by the other two men present, she reported. They said that Mr. Jackson, who was only twenty-two years of age, had been hanging out with them for most of the afternoon. They said at about six-thirty he was heading home for dinner when all of the sudden this man got out of a car and started to chase him. They further said that the man did not display a badge and at no time identified himself as a police officer. Williams quoted Mr. Walker as saying “The man had a gun on him too. Anyone would’ve run if a dude with a gun is chasing you.”
The Blue Executions Page 12