“Eddie, what are we doing about Detective Galvin? If we are right, the Grand Jury decision just put him in this mad man’s crosshairs.”
Courtney agreed. “Okay Ray, I want you to contact the threat assessment unit. Get the paperwork done and have him assigned indefinitely to employee relations. Not only does that mean he doesn’t have to report to work, but it also gives us another sacrificial lamb for Reverend Mitchell. He’ll be happy to see Galvin transferred out of the precinct.”
Always the damn politician, Santoro thought to himself. “No problem Eddie.”
“Paul, I want you to have two uniforms sit on his house twenty-four/seven. Make it a fixed post with face to face relief. I also want a sector sent to his apartment right now. Make sure that he knows that he is not to report to work until further notice. Have them bring him a department radio from his resident precinct, this way if anything happens he can call for help directly.”
Chief of Patrol Heider immediately picked up the telephone which sat on the desk in front of him. “Yes sir.”
Just as the Chiefs of Police seemed to be making progress, they got an unwelcomed pair of visitors. Santoro was familiar with Brian McGregor; he didn’t know who the other man was. Santoro guessed him to be in his late forties and seemed every bit the dresser that Santoro was. He wore a navy blue Armani suit with light blue pin striping and an Emilio Pucci, pale blue tie. He sure knows how to dress.
Santoro felt the suit did wonders to flatter the man who was at least thirty pounds overweight. The man introduced himself as John Pantangelo. He shook Courtney’s hand first then everyone else’s, but his hazel eyes were anything but cordial if Santoro read them correctly.
Santoro quickly dismissed the man from his mind when he saw the letter in McGregor’s hand. Not again. Pantangelo was straight to the point. He let it be known that he was the executive editor at the newspaper and had not been aware about the prior letters. He was making it clear that tomorrow’s front page would feature the exclusive story as well as the letters from the Blue Executioner.
The dialogue went back and forth between Courtney and Pantangelo, with an occasional interjection from Brian McGregor. To Santoro, it was all white noise. He could care less about the pissing match between the top uniformed member of the department and the executive editor at a newspaper…the only thing concerning him was what was in the letter that Brian McGregor held in his hand. He noted McGregor was wearing latex gloves, so there was no doubt in his mind that it was from the killer.
As Courtney and Pantangelo continued to argue the merits as to whether or not the story should be put in the papers, Santoro reached over and gently tapped McGregor on the shoulder. He whispered, not to disturb the argument, “Brian is that what I think it is?”
*
McGregor was uncomfortable with the entire situation. He realized that had he gone to his editor immediately upon receiving the first letter, it was possible Officers Tatum and Garret may still be alive. He put his trust in Courtney for the promise of an exclusive story, rather than go to his editor. Needless to say, Pantangelo had given him a pretty stern lecture when he finally came clean less than an hour ago.
McGregor, as did the rest of the reporters at the newspaper, had a great deal of respect for Pantangelo—not just for his near thirty years in the business—but also because he carried the reputation as a tough, yet fair supervisor. Having been the recipient of two Pulitzer Prizes didn’t hurt the admirations his peers held for him either.
“It’s a weird one Chief.” McGregor extended his hand, offering the letter over to Santoro.
“I don’t have any gloves in here; why don’t you just open it?”
McGregor complied. “It just makes no sense to me. He seems to be trying to tell me something. I think it may be a threat against me for not printing his letters.” McGregor was nervous. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Reporting the news was one thing; becoming the news, another. The last thing that he wanted was for a sociopath to be after him.
McGregor opened the letter and placed it flat against the desk for Santoro to examine. Courtney and Pantangelo’s verbal debate became louder. No more than a second after Santoro looked down at the letter, Santoro smacked an open hand against the conference table. “Holy shit!”
Santoro picked up the telephone in front of him and made what was clearly an urgent phone call. There was silence. The eyes of every man in the room were on Santoro—each man more confused than the next. “This is Chief Santoro. Get me our best DNA tech in the department to the 14th floor conference room at One Police Plaza forthwith.”
Santoro hung up the phone and stared down at the letter; his face inching closer. McGregor swallowed hard. “Am I right Chief? Is he threatening me now?”
Santoro continued looking down at the letter momentarily before answering. “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. McGregor. I don’t know. I’m afraid I didn’t read what he wrote.”
*
Probably no other man in the room would have seen what Chief of Detectives Raymond Santoro had noticed. His years in the Detective Bureau gave him the trained eye that few others had. On the bottom right of the page there was a perfectly round blemish on the page; no more than half a centimeter in diameter. Being in the middle of a July heat wave, Santoro was nearly certain it was a drop of sweat.
He inched closer to get a better look. I got you, you son of a bitch!
Santoro was momentarily in his own world until McGregor’s query had broken his trance. After explaining his findings to the rest of the room, he was asked by Courtney to read the letter aloud which he did.
Mr. McGregor,
I do not understand why you have chosen not to publish my letters. I am afraid that I will not be able to share my journals with you one day as I had hoped. No worries though; the Blue Executions shall continue. For my job is of the utmost importance. New York City must be rid of all those who take an oath to serve its people but instead choose to murder them either directly or by aiding and abetting.
Acting in Concert
When one person engages in conduct which constitutes an offense, another person who was not an actual participant is criminally is liable for such conduct when, acting with the mental culpability required for the commission thereof, he solicits, requests, commands, importunes, or intentionally aids such person to engage in such conduct. Under acting-in-concert liability, the most minor participant in a crime will be considered criminally liable to the same extent of an accomplice who committed the most serious acts.
You shall hear from me soon…very soon,
The Blue Executioner.
There was silence. Chief Courtney looked around the room. “Does anybody have a clue what this nut job is talking about?”
*
Detective First Grade Patrick Dempsey sat at his desk at the Applicant Investigation Unit. Has just finishing the arrest supplement which he had prepared for one of the Police Officer Candidates who was wanted on a misdemeanor charge in Brooklyn. Dempsey was amazed at the stupidity of some of the people that applied to be police officers. How the hell do you come to a police department facility when you know you are wanted for a crime? Dempsey couldn’t make sense of it, yet it was not all that uncommon.
He finished the arrest paperwork and closed out the case on the candidate recommending he no longer be considered for the position of Probationary Police Officer. He signed his name at the bottom, closed the folder and pushed it aside. He looked at the picture on his desk; it bore the image of himself, his radio car partner and best friend Jimmy Galvin and Jimmy’s son, Tommy, on Tommy’s graduation day from the Police Academy. Dempsey was concerned about Tommy Galvin after recent events and had been unable to reach him all weekend. He picked up his cell phone from his desk.
*
Tommy Galvin left Laurie Bando’s office at 2:15 that Monday afternoon. He was glad he had been able to take her out for lunch—with jury selection underway, he realized that he would not be seeing very much of her o
ver the next few weeks. If all went according to plan, a jury would be seated by Wednesday and opening arguments would begin in the State of New York vs. Peter Groff on Thursday morning. Laurie had explained to him that she expected the trial to last until the end of the month at the earliest.
As soon as Galvin left the air conditioned building the heat was overbearing. It has to be close to 100 degrees again today.
He hoped that Lieutenant Thompson would be okay with the fact that he was not wearing a suit jacket today; rather just a mustard colored short sleeve dress shirt—his Glock 9mm exposed on his right hip. He loosened his navy and maroon striped tie and undid the top button. It was just too hot. Galvin stepped inside a deli to grab a cold bottle of water for the ride back to his precinct.
Galvin walked up the block to the multi-meter parking lot, waving hello to some uniformed officers he knew from the command. The street in front of the courthouse was crowded, as it was on most days at this time. There were many police officers coming and going into the courthouse as well as many white-shirted court officers; not to mention the assistant district attorneys, defense attorneys and the hundreds of criminal defendants who had their day in court on a given day. The sun caught the windshield of a double parked police van on the street, drawing Galvin’s attention to it. One of the side windows in the rear had been broken out and the van had numerous dents. Guess it was part of the riot I keep hearing so much about.
The cold water felt good against his throat as he took a long drink from the water. Galvin heard the familiar Irish march, the Garryowen, sounding from his belt. He retrieved his cell phone to see his Godfather’s name. He put the bottle cap back on the water and answered the phone. “Hey Uncle Pat, how’s everything going?”
Galvin spent the majority of the twenty minute ride to the precinct trying to put his uncle’s mind at ease. He promised his uncle that he’d be extra careful—a promise that he seemed to have made to an endless number of fellow cops that have called him to make sure he was okay. After parking in the lot adjacent to the precinct, he went inside. He noticed that the entire third platoon, even the guys on their regular day off, were in the muster room, almost a full half hour before roll call was scheduled.
Weird?
He decided to go see why. He walked in and quietly closed the door behind him. Many of the cops who saw him enter nodded, acknowledging his presence. He nodded back but remained quiet as he listened to the union delegate explain the gravity of the situation. The Patrolman’s Benevolent Association, the largest police union in the NYPD, said that not only was there a serial cop killer on the loose, but there was also the reemergence of the cop hating Black Panther Party.
The delegate was passing around a schedule; asking every officer to take turns coming in to the precinct on their days off. The off-duty officers would work in pairs of two, in plain clothes and in their private vehicles. They would each be armed with shotguns and be assigned to a sector. Every job that the sector in which they were assigned to went on, they would also go to, acting as back up. Each platoon would be responsible to organize protection for their own officers. It was a dangerous time to be a cop in New York City.
The officers from this particular precinct were a very tight knit group. There was no shortage of volunteers to give up their days off to watch over one and other. Galvin, who had worked the four to twelve shifts while he was still on patrol, was one of the first in line to sign up. He realized that while he was now a detective, these were his brothers and sisters in blue and anything that he could do to ensure they safety, he would do without hesitation.
After leaving the muster room Galvin waved to the Sergeant on the desk as he passed. He checked in the complaint room to see if any robberies or shootings had occurred during the day tour and then made his way up the staircase to go to the Detective Squad, where he was ready to sign in for the day’s work.
No sooner than did Galvin sign in, than was he summoned to Lt. Thompson’s office. Thompson had an annoyed look on his face and Galvin sensed it was not good news. “Tommy, what the hell are you doing here? Downtown has been trying to track you down all day. Don’t you answer your cell phone?” Galvin reached down to his belt to retrieve it. A quick study revealed seven unopened voicemails. “Oh shit, sorry Lieu, I was in court all day and never checked the messages when I turned the volume back on.”
*
Galvin had mixed emotions as he got back into his Jeep to head home. He turned on the department radio that Lieutenant Thompson had given him to take home. He wasn’t happy to have been ordered to take a department radio with him everywhere that he went and was unhappier still to be sent home from work. He was also a bit frightened. The confirmation of a serial cop killer sent a chill down his spine—being informed that the Threat Assessment Unit considered him a serious target of the mad man, was completely unnerving. There would likely be some near sleepless nights in his future, figured Galvin.
*
The steel brush was methodically run through each of the five chambers of the .38 caliber revolver’s cylinder. He counted exactly twelve strokes for each chamber. He studied the gun. Having sawed the barrel off the gun made it look weird, he thought. Nevertheless, he knew that if there was no barrel, there would be no rifling. If there were no rifling, there would be no ballistic fingerprints. He was sure this would stump even the best of the ballistics experts that the police department had to offer. One day when he is in a top position in the police department, he’ll share his findings with the rest of the department to make them almost as knowledgeable as he was…almost.
He placed a .38 caliber gun mop on the end of the steel rod and cleaned every chamber carefully. He held it up to the light; examining if it met his high standards. The tools of the trade must be in top working order. He picked up the five .38 caliber cop killer bullets which he had neatly lined up on his dining room table and one by one inserted them into the gun. He closed the cylinder and wiped down the gun with a silicone cloth.
He turned his attention back to his scrapbook. There had certainly been an enormous amount of articles he had cut out about Detective Tom Galvin. He flipped page after page, reading various articles and looking at the many pictures taken during the day of civil unrest last weekend; all of it Galvin’s fault. He closed the scrapbook and opened his journal. He pondered momentarily and then made his entry. He looked around his apartment, making sure everything was in its proper place and decided to go to sleep for the night.
Underhill undressed in his bedroom. He carefully laid his newly cleaned .38 caliber revolver on the nightstand next to his bed. He brushed his teeth and donned a pair of light blue pajamas. He put the television on to the local news station, though he merely seemed to stare straight through it. He took another glance at the handgun atop his nightstand. He decided that the television was a distraction—he needed his sleep. He turned off the television and set the remote control down, closing his eyes. Tomorrow will be a very interesting day.
*
It wasn’t unusual for Chief Courtney to get phone calls anytime day or night when he was off-duty in his Westchester home. Most of the time, it wasn’t good news.
This was one of those rare times that it was.
“We got ‘em, Eddie! We got the son of a bitch identified!”
Courtney quickly grabbed the remote control, muting the Mets-Dodgers game on the 52 inch LED television in front of him. He kicked the black leather ottoman forward, sitting up in his matching chair. Goosebumps flushed over his entire body. Courtney had known Santoro for more than two decades, and had never heard him so excited. He nervously stood up and began to pace the floor of his family room. He needed to be sure so that there was no mistake. “Who are you talking about, Ray?”
“The Blue Executioner, Eddie. Remember the letter—that tiny circle? I was right. The forensics team was able to build a DNA profile and we got a match.”
“That’s great, Ray!” Courtney couldn’t be happier. He walked up the stairs to his bed
room to get dressed. “Tell me more.”
“He lives in Brooklyn. He was fired from the Department of Education a few years back for having a sexual relationship with a student.” Santoro paused for a moment. “Here’s the best part. He was actually a Police Officer Candidate for our job. Looks like somebody at Applicant Investigations did their job and had him disqualified.”
Courtney stopped in his tracks to consider this. “Thank God he was disqualified. Jesus Christ, could you imagine the egg we’d have on our faces if he was still a candidate and the press found out?! They’d have a field day making us look incompetent.”
“It looks like he did appeal the disqualification, but that’s out of our control right now. Our guys did what they were supposed to,” Santoro quickly said, reassuring Courtney.
“Okay, great job, Ray. Meet me at 1PP as soon as you can get there.”
Courtney’s first priority was to call the Police Commissioner, and then he would head to Police Headquarters at One Police Plaza. If all went smoothly, over the next few hours, they would be executing an arrest warrant and a search warrant for the Blue Executioner at six a.m. It was going to be a long night.
#########################
Chapter 16
The 68 precinct Detective Squad was more crowded than it had ever been. At 5:15 a.m., there were both uniformed and plainclothes officers overcrowding the room. Every chair in the office was taken. Every desk became another chair. There were still dozens of officers standing and waiting for the meeting to begin, talking amongst themselves as they waited. The tactical meeting was to be run by Chief of Detectives Ray Santoro himself—a highly unusual move for the highest ranking member of the Detective Bureau to actually be taking part in the meeting.
Leading the meeting was a calculated play for Santoro. Although he and Ed Courtney had been friends for decades, the truth of the matter was that in a few short months, New York City was going to elect a new Mayor. The current Police Commissioner had already announced his intentions to retire at the end of the Mayor’s term. Santoro, as did most everyone else on the inner circle of the police department, knew the Chief of Department was almost always highly considered when naming a new P.C. Santoro also knew that he, himself, was both respected and liked by the top candidates in the upcoming election and if he could attach his name to having led the investigation in such a high profile arrest, it could possibly be the feather in his cap that would allow a new Mayor to bypass the obvious choice and select Santoro as the new P.C. instead.
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