The Blue Executions (3 page)

After the crowd had thinned substantially, he began to
walk to the nearest subway station. As he walked through the crowds of uniformed officers, he saw that there were officers as far as the eye could see. He descended into the nearby subway station—which judging by the sheer volume of officers was likely the safest place in the city right now.

It was unfortunate to have lost a hero officer like John Casey, the man reflected.
  From everything he’d read on line and in the newspapers, Casey had been a model officer.  He was assigned to the plainclothes Gang Unit. It was one of the most dangerous details in the police department, as they arrested people carrying illegal handguns and committing violent crimes.  They targeted gang members who sold drugs and poisoned the community. They were going after the scum of the city, the scum of the earth. 
Being in such an elite unit, must have meant that John Casey had been one of the finest officers in the entire department
.

As the train pulled into the
subway station, the man’s thoughts were momentarily sidetracked. He was one of the first to enter the crowded car and saw a few empty seats. At first, he declined to sit down, noting how many officers were also entering the train. As they were brave men and women who did a dangerous job, he felt that the least he could do was to let them sit down on the train—or so he felt, until he considered the mission in which he was about to undertake. It was at least as dangerous as a police officer’s job.

Contemplating this, he quickly walked over to the last remaining seat and sat down.
The train was packed as it pulled away, headed towards Brooklyn. The man studied the faces of the officers that he was sharing a ride with—they were mostly young men in their twenties and thirties. He finally recognized a police officer from his resident precinct. The man smiled and nodded. The officer nodded back in recognition. The man loosened the strap of his coat, put his head back, and relaxed. He had a dangerous night ahead.

*

When the funeral had ended, Tommy Galvin sought out Pat Dempsey, making sure to say goodbye.  Galvin stuck out his hand.  Dempsey grabbed it and pulled him in for a hug.  “Take care Uncle Pat.  I love ya.”

“I love you too, Tommy.  You stay safe out there okay.”

“I will Uncle Pat, you do the same.”

Dempsey let out a laugh.  “Don’t worry about me Tommy.  Even with the knuck
leheads that the job is hiring today, they aren’t too dangerous when they come in to Applicant Investigations.”  He paused and smiled.  “Paper cuts are all I have to worry about these days.”

Galvin shared the laugh.  He knew
that Dempsey was one of the most hailed detectives in the entire police department, yet he was buried in the Applicant Investigation Unit.  He had gone from tracking down murderers to investigating Police Officer Candidates—an obvious waste of his talents.  It wasn’t uncommon for the department to retaliate against officers who bucked the system.  Although the department did have a strict no retaliation policy on paper, the rule was often circumvented if you angered a supervisor with enough pull...or a high enough rank. 

After saying their goodbyes, Galvin began to walk away when Dempsey called back out to him.  “Hey Tommy, you never called me after the Sergeant’s test last week like you promised.  How’d you do?”

“Sorry Uncle Pat.  I think I aced it!”

“Good for you kid
; your old man would be proud.”  Dempsey threw him a wink and pointed accusingly at him.  “Just don’t think when you get promoted, you can be my boss.  I don’t listen to rookies.”

*

Tommy Galvin got into his 2010 Jeep Wrangler, stepped on the clutch and turned the key. After the car jumped to life, he took the restricted parking permit off of the dashboard and put it in its usual spot, behind the sun visor. He allowed the Jeep to warm up for a moment before pulling out onto Fifth Avenue. He once again thought of his friend.  It was hard to believe that he was really gone.

The traffic was particularly heavy due to the funeral, and it was already
1:30 by the time Galvin reached the entrance to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel.  He was glad that he didn’t have to travel into Manhattan every day like he’d had to when he was a rookie.  While he had liked working in Manhattan, he certainly didn’t miss the traffic and the tolls.

After the toll plaza, the traffic let up.
It felt good to get up to sixty miles per hour after having to sit in nearly a half-hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Galvin debated stopping at his Bayside apartment before going to work but quickly dispelled the thought. None of his neighbors knew he was a cop and he wanted to keep it that way. It was better to go to work a little early than to go home in uniform and announce to them what he did for a living.

He thought about John again; it wasn’t fair that his life had been cut so short.
He debated whether he should call Karen and offer his condolences, or simply let her be. The last thing he wanted to do was bother her.

Galvin turned off the radio and drove in silence, thinking
how he—just like John had done—would go to work tonight and put his life on the line for the people of the city he had sworn to protect.

############################

C
hapter 2

Tommy Galvin’s jeep made a right hand turn from Guy R. Brewer Boulevard onto Baisley Boulevard.
He was fortunate to find a parking spot almost directly in front of the South Jamaica stationhouse. Gazing at the clock on the dashboard, he realized that he wasn’t due to report for duty for almost an hour and a half. After parking the jeep, he picked up his hat and memo book (which lay on the seat next to him) and got out of his jeep.

He looked up at the two-story building where he had been assigned for the majority of his career.  The bricks had faded to a dull shade of beige and the windows were filthy.  In the second floor window
where his office was located, he observed cigarette smoke bellowing from an open window.  Not too many of the detectives in his unit smoked, so he knew that either Walters or Kaufman were doing a day tour.  He climbed the five stairs, which were set in between two pillars bearing
113 Pct.
on either side.  He stared at the black bold letters to the right of the main entrance.

THE CITY OF NEW YORK

POLICE DEPARTMENT

Once inside, Galvin walked past the reception area where nearly a dozen civilians were waiting to file police reports, varying from lost property to sexual assault. 
Not too busy today
, thought Galvin, as he passed through a set of double doors leading to the front desk and
muster room
where the outgoing third platoon would soon be having roll call.  Instinctually, he looked behind the four and a half foot tall, brown wooden desk, to see which supervisor was in charge of the precinct this evening—Lt. Jenkins. 
He’s a good desk officer—the four to twelve’s are lucky to have him.
  “Hey Lieu, how’s everything going?” said Galvin, offering a wave.

The Lieutenant briefly looked up look enough to return Galvin’s greeting.  Then he returned his attention to making the necessary adjustments to the roll call for the outgoing platoon.
  Two cops from the day tour stood in front of the desk with a prisoner waiting to be logged into the
command log. 
Lt. Jenkins handed the officers a
pedigree card
to be filled out so he could make the necessary entries.  The arrestee, a black male in his late forties, rested his head on the silver metal railing which stood about a foot in front of the large desk.  Galvin looked at the clock on the wall above the desk. 
Someone’s making money tonight.
Galvin used to love the end of tour collars, they meant a lot of overtime.

Galvin walked past the desk ma
king his way to the arrest processing room.  He took a peek inside of the cells, curious to see if any of his
friends
were in there.  The six foot long desk in the processing area was littered with paperwork from previous arrests as well as unused arrest reports and assorted papers scattered about.  In the back corner of the room, next to the fingerprint and booking photo machine, was a garbage pail full with discarded papers as well as lighters and shoelaces; no doubt confiscated from arrestees.  The cell door was ajar and vacant, although it wouldn’t be for very long—it never stayed empty for too long in this precinct. 

Upon exiting the arrest processing area, Galvin
stopped to talk with some of the patrol officers who were getting ready to turn out for the four-to-midnight shift.  Calling it a four to twelve when the cops actually worked three to eleven thirty never made any sense to Galvin.  It was just one of the many things that didn’t make sense on this job, he joked to himself.  

“Hey, Tommy, how’s it going?” inquired one
of the officers, who were waiting on line to get his portable radio.

“Not bad, Eddie.
How ‘bout you?”

“Pretty good, thanks.
Listen Tommy, I was wondering if you could maybe help me write up the gun collar that Mike and I made the other night. I was hoping to get a medal for it, maybe an Excellent Police Duty.”

Galvin gave the young officer a playful tap on the shoulder. 
“For you, Eddie? Sure.  A pick up gun collar should be at least an
EPD
.”

Galvin had taken a liking to Eddie Dwyer.
He was a young and energetic officer, one who had been making some rather impressive arrests. He reminded Galvin of himself when he’d only had three years on the job. Galvin figured Eddie would be a shoe-in for Anti-Crime when he had a little more time on the job.  Not only was he a good cop, thought Galvin, but he was in great physical shape.  Dwyer was only five feet, eight inches tall but he had a chiseled frame of 180 pounds of all muscle.  Instead of taking a meal break, Dwyer spent his down time working out in the basement gym.  It seemed to Galvin, that almost every time he was down there working out, so was Dwyer.  Dwyer’s light blue eyes and short blond hair, coupled with the fact that he was very soft spoken, could lead one to believe he was soft.  Seeing him work out, Galvin knew anyone making this assumption was way off.

“Just bring in all of the paperwork on the collar when you come in for meal,” Galvin continued.
“I’m working until one o’clock tonight.”

“Thanks a lot, Tommy
. I really appreciate it.”

Galvin was amused that so many young officers came up to him when they needed help in writing up a medal.
It did make sense though—after all, he had more medals by far than anyone else in the precinct. In his ten years of service, Galvin had been awarded departmental recognition for excellent arrests and heroism in the line of duty in excess of seventy times. He felt a sense of pride when (on the rare occasions when he did wear his uniform) he would notice the other officers staring at his medals. In particular, he noticed many rookies—most of whom he didn’t even know would make an excuse to walk past him, just to get a peek at them. Galvin’s medals had earned him the nickname “
the rack”
throughout the stationhouse.

Galvin walked into the now vacated muster room, where the officers had just stood for roll call.
He walked past the five rows of blue chairs where the officers routinely sit during training, to get to the vending machines.  He bought a bottle of water, dropping a quarter as he did.  It echoed as it hit the beige tiled floor and rolled behind the machine.  Upon hearing a slight commotion, Galvin looked through the large windows in the front of the muster room facing the front desk.  The prisoner at the desk was now throwing up.  He shook his head. 
Somebody is going to be earning their money tonight with that perp.

There was a full length mirror affixed to the wall next to
where the precinct pin maps and wanted posters were displayed.  Galvin thumbed through the wanted posters, then he stared at his image in the mirror—it had been a long time since he had been in uniform.

He studied his thick, black hair which his ha
t had flattened—something that could be rectified with a quick sweep of his fingers through his hair, he decided. He liked the way his six-foot, one-hundred eighty-five pound frame looked in uniform—in that aspect, he was unlike most other cops. Most cops couldn’t wait to get into a detail that would allow them to wear plainclothes.  Galvin, however, never minded being in uniform—he took pride in wearing it.  As his light brown eyes stared back at him, he debated whether or not to grow his goatee back or to stay clean shaven. 

“Jesus Christ!
Don’t tell me you’re staring at your damn medals again, Tommy.”

A smile came across Galvin’s face as he recognized the voice of George Lambert.
Galvin turned to greet his friend and former Anti-Crime partner. Lambert, who was five years Galvin’s elder, would never pass on an opportunity to tease his friend.  Lambert mimicked Galvin by running a hand through his own thinning, blond hair and stroking his mustache while starring into the mirror.